


Ragged Mile

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 58,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Liz and Red's survival and how their relationship grows, whilst they battle the Cabal and run from a steadfast Ressler, determined to bring them to justice. </p>
<p>Post Season Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fiji

The sun baked the sand she lay upon, the warmth seeping into skin that would normally be hidden beneath professional suits. Fingernails traced through the sand as her eyes flickered open, the flames that danced across her eyelids disappearing into the blue sky above her. Her lips parted as she sighed, her chest aching as she closed her eyes once more and Tom Connolly materialized before her, blood blossoming from his chest, before he morphed into her father.

A month.

It had been only a month. A month since she found out she was a murderer. A month since she committed another atrocity. A month since she fled America in terror, adrenaline constantly surging through her veins. Fear was her default emotion and survival her only agenda. Weeks of flying and running and hiding, phone calls to dodgy contacts and sleeping in areas that were surely not habitable. Desperate and terrified, Liz is aware that she would have been caught in a matter of days had it not been for him. _Reddington_.

They had been in each other’s company constantly, never straying too far from one another. Red made certain that their suites were always adjacent, that she was armed and safe. She was sure he never slept. It could be the darkest hours of the night and she could hear his movements in the next room, the clinking of glass, the muted rumble of his voice, and the soothing hum of the soft music he listens to. It was easy to be aware of his presence when sleep is a luxury that does not come easily to Liz any longer.

She felt as if she was a shell. Empty. Her movements mechanical, conversation forced. Her limbs were lead, mind sluggish. Murderer. She knew that Red had noticed, of course he had noticed. It made him uncomfortable. She could see his uneasiness in the way he moved, his hand straying to hers before clenching at his side, eyes drawn to the lock of loose hair that fell in her own. They rarely spoke and if they did, it was pointless chatter. They did not mention her father and Liz wasn’t sure if she avoided the topic for her sake, or his.

  
The soft breeze whispered over her skin and she smiled, looking out at the expanse of water before her. It was beautiful, serene. Silent compared to her old life. The stretch of beach their villa was built along was private. Liz would go days without seeing anyone but Reddington. She would rise early in the morning, from a restless and unsatisfying sleep, to run. It was the only constant in her life now and Liz smiled grimly at the irony. She was running for her life, her freedom and her sanity.

She wondered how Ressler was coping with the pressure, she worried for Cooper, and she missed Aram and the security she felt with Samar. Anxiety constantly roiled within her, unsettling her. She wished she could believe that Red would mention their movements to her if a significant event took place, but she simply couldn’t. Riddles and secrets and omitted truths, Raymond Reddington revelled in them. Liz is unaware of the Task Force’s movements, but their intentions were clear. Liz was a murderer and they were coming for her.

The soft sound of sand under, what she assumes are, extremely expensive leather shoes attracts her attention. Red is moving towards her, fedora in place and sunglasses on. He is dressed impeccably, blue suit pants and vest with a white shirt. She can’t believe him, he must be cooking. His smile is soft, but forced, head tilted to the side as he watches her. She waits.

“I have some news, Lizzie,” he rumbles, and her eyes fall to the phone in his hand. “It’s about Harold Cooper.”


	2. Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter this time thankfully!

She is sprawled out on the sand, the sun slowly turning her skin pink. He watches as she tenses, she must have finally heard his approach. Her fingers, tracing their way through the sand, fall still as if in anticipation for what he has to say. She glances up at him, brow slightly furrowed. He wonders why.

“I have some news, Lizzie,” he rumbles, and her eyes fall to the phone in his hand. “It’s about Harold Cooper.”

She flinches slightly, it wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone else, the way her eyes slightly narrow. She nods her head, encouraging him to continue. He is not sure if he can. He is not sure if he has made the right decision to come out to her, to tell her. He desperately misses Dembe.

“He has been detained,” Red breathes, his grip on the phone tightening as Liz bolts upright, “He has been prosecuted for treason and accessory to murder.”

It hurts, the way she looks at him, as if he should have stopped it, prevented it. He probably could have, but her safety is paramount. Harold Cooper is nothing compared to Elizabeth Keen. It hurts more when her hands begin to tremble; tears begin to well in her blue eyes. He takes a step forward.

“How’d you know?” She asks, her voice hoarse and choked with emotion. She steps away from him. He glances down at the sand, throat tightening slightly.  
“I still have many sources in America, Lizzie.”

She nods her head, as if she didn’t expect anything else. She bends down, her back covered in sand and scoops up her towel. He watches as she brushes past him, her cheeks glistening with tears.

“Lizzie,” he calls after her, a futile attempt, as she walks back to the villa. Red sighs, spinning on his heel to stare out to sea. He rubs at his eyes, utterly exhausted. They’re safe here, in Fiji, but they’ll need change soon, they’ll need company other than each other if they are to survive this venture. Liz is broken, unsettled and seemingly shattered, the fire in her all but smothered by the weight of Red’s world.

The guilt is unbearable, choking in its intensity. He feels as if it seeps out of his pores, into the air around him. His sweet Lizzie is merely a shell of her old self. His lifestyle was poison to her. She had dropped a significant amount of weight, her face pale and drawn even though she was out under the sun every day. She looked as if she was dying. Her eyes were dimmed, faded.

The phone in his hand buzzes and he sucks a breath in between his teeth, before looking at the caller ID and smiling.

“Kate, what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her stern voice, so steady an octave, grounds him. Her voice is home and stability and everything before that Christmas Eve. He turns to look back at the villa, Liz is nowhere in sight.

“Donald Ressler,” she states, as if that name without any context doesn’t cause his heart to stutter within his chest. Liz would be devastated if something befell her partner.

“What about him?”

“He’s hunting Dembe,” Mr Kaplan intoned and Raymond could swear that her lips would have quirked up at that statement.

Red hadn’t laughed in weeks. His cheeks ached and his chest rumbled. He closed his eyes, the mirth seeping through him at the thought. Ressler had more of a chance at catching Lizzie than Dembe.

“And I require this information because?” Red questions, his smile only fading marginally.

“Because, I assumed you’d need something to cheer you up Raymond.”

With a click the call ends and Red is left to stare at the phone, the sound of the waves crashing along the shore his only company.

He would need to head back soon, to give Lizzie the comfort she would allow him. He sighs, pockets the phone and begins to amble his way back towards the villa. His steps are heavy with trepidation. As he steps onto the cobbled path that winds through the gardens, her figure passes by one of the windows, her fingers threaded through her hair, before she disappears out of sight. He jogs up the steps, his footsteps loud on the deck as he pulls his armour around him, imaging a confidence he does not feel.

The French doors were already open, the cool air of the air conditioner wafting out into the humid climate that caused the beads of sweat upon Red’s upper lip. He steps in and sees that she is sitting on the couch, her knees folded beneath her as she sips at a bottle of water. Her eyes are riveted on him. He knows that look and sighs. He palms his fedora and places it on the coffee table between them.

“I do not think this is best to do now, Lizzie,” he states, noting the way her lips pull into a thin line. “If you have questions about Harold, I am willing to answer them. But I am presuming you have another line of questioning.”

If she was taken aback by his intuition, she did not show it, she merely shifted so that she was sitting upright, her elbows rested on her knees. Her hair was getting long, and fell around her face as she looked at him. Her expression, the one he had seen so many times during interrogations. She looked slightly like Agent Malik.

“I want you to answer questions about my mother,” she states, like she has so many times before. As if she actually expects him to answer this time.

He sits in the chair opposite her, biding his time, praying that for once what he says will not result in her anger and distrust. His hand ghosts over the back of his head before he shifts forward, sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting to be closer.

“Lizzie, there are many things that we want in this world, and most of the time people are able to grant them for us,” he begins, ignoring the way her lips seem to pull back into a snarl, “but I need you to understand that your questions are futile, that all I _want_ in this world is your safety. If you have not noticed the lengths and extremes I am willing to go to protect you, then I am telling you now. There is _nothing_ you could do or say that will make me put your life in jeopardy.”

His placating tone and carefully articulated words do nothing to stop the storm of fury that flashes through her eyes. Red braces himself for her tirade, but instead nothing comes. Her movements are jerky as she stands. Her muscles are tight as she storms past him and out the door. Red turns and watches her go and wonders how many more times he’ll have watch her walk away from him before she leaves for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter should be up in the next couple of days!


	3. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stands up, her legs dusted with sand. She looks ethereal, the moonlight and water causing her skin to glisten. Her delicate hand reaches down to him, and he grabs it as if it’s a lifeline, or an olive branch, and she tugs him to his feet.

He sits in that chair, waiting for her to return, for hours. He watches the sun float across the sky before sinking below the horizon and painting the sky the colour of flames. He watches as the eerie light of dusk gives way to the silver of the moon. His body aches as he stands and walks out the door.

He can’t see her from the garden, so he heads towards the shore, toeing of his shoes and socks before hitting the sand. His eyes strain against the darkness, searching for her slim profile. It is the dark mass spotted further down the shore to his left that has Red breaking out into a sprint, blood rushing furiously in his ears as his eyes tunnel in on the lifeless form. The sand is soft causing Red to stagger, a frustrated roar building up in his throat, because she is still so far away. She is so desperately far away and _God_ how long had she been down here like this?

He drops to his knees as he reaches her, skids slightly in the sand, the moisture leaching into his pants. His breath is torn from him as he reaches out, but it’s not Lizzie. It’s her clothes and a towel. He glances around, the dim light making it difficult to see any signs of a struggle. He spins around, facing the sea and there she is. The silver light of the moon reflected off the eerily still water.

Liz stands facing the horizon, her arms at her side, completely still. Her porcelain skin, so smooth and unblemished, turned silver. He wonders how long she has been out there, when she last moved, what she was thinking when she headed out.

He picks up her towel and strolls towards the water’s edge, feeling almost paralysed in his uncertainty. He does not want to leave, but this was unchartered territory, breaching the boundaries they had both so carefully built. He swallows and steps forwards, the cool of the water washing over his toes.

The gentle splash of his movements should make his presence known, yet she does not move to cover herself, she doesn’t move at all.

“Lizzie,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and betraying the calmness he was hoping for. He unfolds the towel, stands behind her and holds it out, waiting. She turns her head to look back over her shoulder at him, his eyes riveted to hers. They move past his face and glide down his body, his clothes soaking wet and clinging to him. A ghost of a smile passes over her features before she shakes her head and steps back into him and the cover of the towel. He wraps it around her shoulders holding it closed until she reaches up and takes it from him. She turns slowly in his arms, as if she is the one trying to avoid startling him. The length of her body is pressed against his, her chin tilted up to look him in the eyes. She looks so sad, the ever present ache in Red’s chest becoming more prominent. He tries to smile at her, reassure her.

The cool of her skin causes a tremor to run through him as she presses her face to his neck. Her breath ghosts along his collarbone in harsh gusts. The choked back sob and the unmistakable warmth of a tear splashing against his skin causes him to turn his head and press a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering as he murmurs,

“Come back to shore, sweetheart. Let’s get you dressed.”

She nods against him and they slowly wade back to her pile of clothes, but once they reach them and Red removes the hand he had pressed against her back, she makes no move to dress herself. Instead she sits down on the sand, towel still wrapped around her.

He crouches next to her, chuckling slightly as his knees crack and she winces in sympathy. He turns to look at her, but her eyes are only for the ocean and the moon reflected in the depths.

“You once asked me if I was in love with your mother,” he starts quietly, judging her reaction. She merely turns to look at him, blinking slowly. “Love is a label, and a very diverse one at that.”

He breathes in, reaches over and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. He was stalling, terrified.

“I loved your mother dearly; Kat and I had a relationship that most people were not able to comprehend.” Liz tensed and Raymond struggled to understand why, so he continued, “But I was never _in love_ with your mother, it was... never like that. By the time I became acquainted with her, she had just found out she was pregnant with you.”

Her eyes flickered over to him, disbelieving, and Raymond wished it didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t blame her. Criminals were notorious liars.

“Nine months, in the business your mother and I were in, Lizzie, was an extremely long time.”

She smiles at him, and for once he feels as if he may have given her enough, that she wouldn’t hound him for further answers. That for now she was satisfied. She stands up, her legs dusted with sand. She looks ethereal, the moonlight and water causing her skin to glisten. Her delicate hand reaches down to him, and he grabs it as if it’s a lifeline, or an olive branch, and she tugs him to his feet.

They begin their way back to the villa, guided by the moon, the pile of clothes left behind them. Liz walks two steps ahead of him, yet to speak a word, until they step onto the deck.

“Thank you,” she says with a smile, and Red feels warm again for the first time in weeks. He simply nods and guides her to her room, forgoing lighting and instead moving through the darkness. They enter her room, clothing tossed on the floor and bed unmade, and Red resists the urge to roll his eyes. Liz must have noticed his behaviour, because a smirk tugs at her lips. She sits on the bed as he moves to her drawer, pulling out a t-shirt and some soft shorts.

He turns as she dresses; the rustle of fabric incredibly loud in the silence. He hears her pull back the quilt and so he moves back to her side and once she lies down he drags the blanket over her.

“Sleep well, Lizzie,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead, before leaving the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four should be up in a few days, it's quite long so i hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Helm of your Destiny

When she wakes she can sense his presence immediately. She can sense the shift in his mood, and she has not yet seen him. Her vision is blurred as she cracks her eyelids open, her mouth and throat dry. She stretches her legs out, searching for the cool side of the bed, a stark contrast to the warmth of her flesh and turns her head to the door.

There he stands, fedora in place and sunglasses already on. Black vest and pants today, looking dapper as usual. His eyes are soft and smile gentle as he steps slowly into the room.

“Glad to see you’re awake, I thought you’d never get up,” he jokes, smiling at her. She ignores the remark, but does glance at the time. He was right; it was early in the afternoon. She’d slept so soundly and so deeply, for the first time in weeks.

“Why do you insist on wearing clothes that are _really_ not suited for this climate, Red?” She asks, her voice husky from sleep. She slips out from underneath the quilt and slides off the bed, her bare feet coming into contact with the cool tiles beneath them. He is laughing at her, a deep rumble within his chest, a conceding smirk accompanying it.

“It comes with the name, Lizzie,” he eventually replies, as he sidles up to her, a piece of paper in his hand. She takes it from him. “I figured it was time we left our little Haven for something new; something with a more... well let us say diverse range of company.”

“So you bought a yacht?” Lizzie asks incredulously. She glances over to him, notices the way his eyes spark with amusement. He misses the banter; he’s trying to joke with her. He’s trying to bring her back from the dark abyss she is so precariously close to.

“I _borrowed_ a yacht,” Red corrects, moving to Liz’s wardrobe and pulling out her suitcases. “We could leave these clothes here; I’ve had the Seven Seas stocked, unless they have sentimental value to you?”

Liz furrows her brow, and begins to throw her clothes into the suitcase now laid out on her bed. She leaves a pair of shorts and a singlet beside the case, ready to dress into later.

“They’re perfectly good clothes, Red, there would be no reason to throw them away.”

He makes a noise of agreement, tilts his head in acknowledgement and heads out the door, leaving Liz to her packing. She notices when he stops in the doorway and turns to him, eyeing him curiously.

“Should I go down to the beach and collect the clothes you left there last night, then?” he asks, his expression aloof, feigning innocence.

She slams the lid of her suitcase closed as she hears the door click and his footsteps retreat deeper into the villa. She rubs her hands over her face, trying to ignore the heat under her fingertips.

In truth, she had never intended for him to find her like that. She had merely wanted to wade out into the cool water, shed of everything but her most basic self. She had wanted to cleanse. When she had heard his quiet approach in the water, she’d frozen. For all her inner thoughts and monologue over the past few hours about confidence and security, they’d all been torn away. All Raymond Reddington had to do was wade out into the ocean and wrap her in a towel.

It was piled on the floor at the end of her bed, a white puddle. It was unlike him to leave something in such a state, judging by his reaction to the condition of her room. Perhaps he was as unsettled as she had been.

Sighing to herself she slips on the fresh set of clothes she left out and grabs her suitcase off the bed and drags it out into the living room. He is standing by the door, looking out to the beach, fingers linked loosely behind his back.

“So, when you say ‘diverse range of company’, who exactly do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sure you can imagine, Lizzie, acquaintances and contacts. Rich and important people that may be able to assist us in our travels,” he responds, moving over to the coffee table where a glock rests on its side.

“So, people who could potentially kill us?” Liz asks, trying to keep her voice as level as possible. Her hands twitch slightly at the sight of the weapon.

“Well, anyone could potentially kill us, Lizzie, that’s why we go prepared,” Red responds, passing her the weapon and watching as she slides it between her shorts and lower back. The cool barrel pressed against her skin is unnervingly comfortable.

“I’m all for being prepared, Red, but I feel as if putting ourselves on a boat with people who may kill us, for God knows how long, might not be a very good plan.”

He steps towards her, expression blank, but his eyes search her face, assessing.

“It’s a yacht,” he murmurs, and Liz can’t help but huff at him in frustration, “Lizzie, I know every single person who will be sailing with us. I know what drives them, I know what they _want_ and I can most likely give it to them. We will be safe. _You_ will be safe for _as long_ as I am around,” his voice is gravelly, forceful as if he is willing her to believe and trust him. So she nods her head, because she has no other option anymore. She’s a murderer.

He does not seem satisfied with her answer, and for a moment he lingers, before he steps past her and grabs her luggage. She follows him out to the car, and slides into the back seat.

The drive is quiet, the driver only speaking to Reddington occasionally. He is his usually jovial self when he responds, but when silence falls once more, his eyes seem to dim as he watches out of the window. Liz shifts in her seat, the butt of the gun grinding into her back uncomfortably.

They arrive at the harbour, and Liz thinks that if Red was trying to be inconspicuous about their movements, he had gone about it the wrong way. It was enormous, luxurious. It was undeniably _Reddington_. The _Seven Seas_ may have well of been the only yacht, or boat, in the marina, its presence was that great, like the man who was destined to reside in it.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Red breathes as he passes their driver some cash and gets out of the car. He pops the boot and pulls Liz’s luggage out. Notably, he has none.

“Well... that’s one way you could describe it,” Liz states blandly, ignoring the admonishing look Red shoots at her, before he sets off towards the water. She follows after him, apprehension coiling in her gut. She must admit that it’s nicer than Tom’s boat, but quickly brushes the thought aside and focuses on Reddington’s retreating back.

As they make their approach, a man, presumably a staff member, comes out to greet them. Red briefly embraces him, the Concierge of Crime persona cloaked around him like the fine clothes he wears, before passing Liz’s luggage over. The man introduces himself to Liz as Colin, before bidding them a good night and disappearing into the hulking beast before them.

Liz turns to Red, assuming that he knows where they’re going. He looks boyish in his glee, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his tongue briefly flickers over his lips. He turns to look at her and he appears so young, his eyes glinting at her mischievously, as if he knows some big secret. He probably does.

“Shall we?” he asks, and waits for her to walk past, her uncertainty known to him, obvious by the way he grasps her hand and leads her inside.

It is extravagant, the interior, so much so that Liz has to take a moment to gather her surroundings. The design is all rosewood furniture, with blood red and beige couches. There is a model of the yacht in a glass case next to a large book case that lines the far wall, predictably full of books and mementos. She drifts over to it, brow furrowed.

There is an Autobot symbol, in silver, framed beside the book shelf. On the actual shelf, in front of the copious amounts of books was a strange white cube, which appeared more like lots of separate cubes glued together. On one of the books was painted a crude leaf in the shape of a star. Lizzie frowned as she heard Red chuckle in amusement as she scoured the rest of the items. There was a silver cylinder, which looked awfully suspicious, so Liz left it where it was. Her eyes were then drawn to a framed photo of a man, bearded and wearing glasses, dressed in daggy clothes sitting and next to a Triceratops.

She whipped her head around so fast that she almost lost balance. Red grinned at her like the Cheshire Cat.

“How the _Hell_ do you know Steven Spielberg?” She gasps, glancing all around her in awe. She briefly registers the clinking of champagne glasses and murmur of voices further inside, or perhaps on deck. She focuses back on to Red. He’s leaning against the bar, head tilted to the side watching her, hands in his pockets.

“He _desperately_ needed funding for one of his filming endeavours, and I was more than happy to help. Land before Time had always been a favourite film of mine,” Red comments, as he wanders over to her, eyeing the shelf. He reaches out and grasps the book with the crude leaf sprawled across the front cover.

“A tree star,” Liz whispers, tracing the outline with her finger. Her eyes drift shut of their own accord, tears stinging behind her lids.

She’s back in Nebraska, cuddled up with Sam on the couch, in her soft pyjamas and a bowl of popcorn wedged between her legs and her Little Foot teddy tucked under her arm. They were bathed in the soft light of the television, and Sam’s head kept nodding down to his chest. Lizzie would gently pinch his arm, this was her _favourite_ part.

She looked back to Reddington, standing so close now, and his expression is stricken, because he knows that film was important to her. Of _course_ he knows. Yet, for once, Lizzie believes he didn’t bring it up on purpose, so she breathes deep and leans into him. He runs his hand gently up her back to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers gently threaded through the hair there. She balls his shirt in her hand, attempting to get her breathing steady.

A sharp bark of laughter makes them both jump, Lizzie mentally noting that it is actually possible to startle Raymond Reddington. He steps away from her, his hands dropping to his sides and smile back in place.

“I have a suspicious feeling I’m not dressed appropriately for the company were about to go see,” Lizzie whispers, her voice raw.

Red smiles at her, and shakes his head.

“You look lovely, sweetheart, but there is a dress in the room,” he points to her left, just past the bar where there is a corridor and presumably a door at the end of it. “That I think it may suit your taste.”

She thanks him quietly, and once he assures her that he’ll wait there, she walks off to her new quarters.

The suite is just as lavish as the room she had just left, but the interior design is different. The rosewood has been replaced for teak, the red and beige furniture now upholstered in white. Liz looks around her, disbelieving. The bed is enormous and extravagant, unsurprisingly, but the sheer amount of couches inside the room was just ridiculous. Lizzie could comfortably sit at least ten people within the suite. Why on _Earth_ would someone need that many couches in their room?

She shrugs, sure that she will never be able to comprehend the rich and famous, before the dress, hanging up on the wardrobe, catches her eye. She sighs, it’s beautiful. She pulls it off the hanger and drapes it upon her bed. It is black, the top half sequined and sparkling in the light, the bottom fitted against her legs. She strips off into her underwear, grimly assessing her reflection in the mirror that hangs above her bed. Her hip bones jut out, ribs a bit too obvious for comfort. She shakes her head and slides the dress over her head, flattening the material with sweaty palms.

Liz walks into the bathroom, not all that surprised to see that there is two of everything, and the interior is marble. She pins her hair up into what she would describe as a ‘messy bun’, but she hopes Red will think it’s presentable. She foregoes the makeup, too tired to go to the effort.

Red once again has his back to her, facing the window and looking out to sea. His shoulders are lax and he rests his weight on his right leg, lightly tapping a rhythm against his thigh. She makes eye contact with him in the reflection of the window.

“Once again breathtaking, Lizzie,” he states as he turns to face her, striding over to her with a confidence that only Reddington could achieve. “Come now, I’m sure everyone is eager to see you.”

She scoffs at him, but follows him past the bookshelf and down the corridor. The chatter she heard earlier rises in volume, the smell of food wafting towards them. Liz notes how Red sucks a breath in between his teeth, links his arm with hers and then stands that little bit taller. The Concierge of Crime.

The room hushes as they walk in, a dozen couples face to look at them. All wealthy and beautiful and apt to the environment they occupy. Liz is suddenly very aware of the gun she left in a pile of clothes in her room. Reddington must feel her tense because he gently squeezes her arm.

“Raymond Reddington,” remarks a man to Liz’s left. He has the most impressive walrus moustache she has ever seen, and it quivers as he smiles. His greying hair is tied back into a plait, and his three-piece suits looks as if the buttons are about to bust, his stomach so large.

“Ah! Wilfred! It’s been _years_!” replies Reddington, releasing Liz’s arm and going to embrace the man, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks, before turn back to her. “Wilfred, this is an associate of mine, Elizabeth.”

Wilfred practically beams at her and thrusts a meaty palm out for her to shake. His skin is hot and clammy, from, what Liz can only assume is, poor life choices and alcohol. She glances over to Red, feeling out of place and confused.

He looks over the assortment of people before them, smiling, and then all at once they stand and move towards him. Liz takes a step back, overwhelmed as they shake Red’s hand and embrace him and kiss him and treat him as their closest of friends. And then, one by one, they turn to her and Liz can’t help but smile at Red through the sea of people as they introduce themselves, because he is truly in his element. He looks so _happy_.

They say that they’ve known Reddington for years. They say that he sponsored them for their education, that he paid for some serious medical procedures, he found their missing daughter, he recovered priceless family heirlooms. One woman, Victoria, mentions the ‘incredible thing he can do with his _tongue_ ’ and Liz is forced to avert her eyes from the man in question until her blush subsides.

It is clear to Liz that, knowing Reddington as she does, that these actions would have been motivated by some benefit for his empire. And perhaps she is right in a sense, as she continues to observe, profile, that he gained something from them all. Loyalty. All of these people, they _love_ him, _respect_ him because he had helped them when he could. None of them feared him. The glint Tom spoke of, whenever he mentioned Reddington’s name, in people’s eyes, it wasn’t present.

After introductions, everyone once again takes their designated seats, delving back into the delicious food sprawled along the table. Red grasps her by the elbow and guides her to the seat next to his. He pulls out her chair, ever the gentlemen, and waits for her to sit. Once she has, he leans in, his breath on her exposed neck, and whispers,

“I wouldn’t put much heed into what Victoria says; she really has _no idea_ what I’m capable of.”

He laughs as he takes his own seat, looking completely unfazed by his remark as Lizzie tries not to choke on her wine.

The rest of the night is loud chatter and watching Red and eating beautiful food and talking to beautiful people. Liz, for the first time in weeks, feels as if she can actually relax. Wilfred, it turns out, is the owner of a very flash and expensive hotel chain. He tells her that Red had helped him in a desperate time of need, when he’d fallen into an alcoholic stupor and almost gambled away his family, that he owed not only the Concierge of Crime, but Raymond Reddington himself, a large part of his life. Liz listens politely and comments when necessary, but her eyes were constantly drawn to the company by her side. He’s slumped in his chair, grin firmly in place and eyes sparkling, but he looks as if he is tiring, the hand he holds his glass of wine in, drooping. The other’s seem to notice it as well, or perhaps their own suites and plush beds are calling them, because they begin to depart, bidding Red and herself goodnight.

She shifts in her seat to look at Red as the last couple leaves, to find that he is already staring at her. His head, like usual when he is observing her, is tilted to the side, his eyes are thoughtful. He blinks slowly as he reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You seem extremely happy tonight,” Liz comments idly, gently nudging his leg with her foot. Red chuckles at her, shifts so he is staring up at the ceiling. He absentmindedly swirls the remaining wine in his glass.

“As do you,” he replies, his voice rough and serious, before he looks back to her, a smile pulling at his lips. “I take it you have never sailed across an ocean before Lizzie? You’ve never been on a sail boat surrounded by sea with no land in sight. Without even the possibility of sighting land for days to come? To stand at the helm of your destiny?”

Liz shakes her head slowly, because this sounds awfully familiar.

“Well, I don’t expect you to understand at the moment then, but perhaps by the end of this trip, you may,” Red remarks, frowning slightly at the smirk on her face, “What?”

“I believe you, Red, that one day I may understand, but by the end of the trip? I don’t think that’ll be possible,” Lizzie says soberly, reaching out to grasp his forearm. He leans forward, seemingly concerned.

“Why’s that, Lizzie?”

She leans over and whispers in his ear,

“Because we’re on a _yacht._ ”

Lizzie stands and smirks down at him while he laughs and wanders off to her bedroom, feeling victorious. Little does she know that Red is staring after her, shaking his head, because _they’re the basically same thing Lizzie_.


	5. Soothe My Soul

She shifts again, cool sheets taut across her body; the bed made so tight she feels as if she is trapped in it. Liz used to go days without making her bed, the sheets becoming untucked and dragging along the floor; it made it that much easier to wrap them around her, safe in a little cocoon of warmth. With a frustrated huff, she rolls on to her side, the bed made with clinical precision only loosening slightly.

Sam used to make sure that her bed was never made too tight, that she could slip under the covers with ease, without struggle. He’d made sure she could go with ease and without struggle for many things in her life. Liz furrows her brow, thoughts drifting to the ‘tree star’, wondering how Red knew about the Land before Time. Perhaps he had watched it with his daughter like her and Sam once had, curled up on the couch. She could barely imagine it.

Liz rolls onto her back to face the ceiling, chest giving a slight ache as she thinks of Sam. He had once been everything to her, her whole life, the only man that had her heart entirely. Then everything had changed. She’d grown up, met boys and then men, and then Tom. She moved away, chased her career, had her life decimated by a man in a three piece suit. Her thoughts unwillingly strayed to Harold Cooper, handcuffed and alone. He had been her mentor throughout these past two years and she had grown to love him like she’d loved Sam. He’d been her only father figure in a time of darkness and desperation, her unwavering support. God only knew what the Cabal were doing to him now because of her. _Murderer_.

Her chest starts to rise and fall erratically, her fingers twisting in the sheets as she tries to stop the panic and guilt choking her. Tears fall, unbidden, from her eyes and track down her cheeks, rolling down into the shell of her ears, as she stares up at the ceiling. Her throat is tight, it hurts to swallow. She squeezes her eyes shut in agony, and finds herself in Ressler’s apartment. He’s holding her hand, crouched down in front of her. He’s telling her to breathe slowly, in and out, because she’s stronger than this. _Reddington and Tom are_ nothing _compared to your strength, Keen_.

Sheets slip through her fingers as she lets go, her breaths falling into a rhythm, as she cracks her eyes back open, roughly wiping away her tears. The Cabal. She’s stronger than them too. She and Red, a hurricane of fury and vengeance, would lay waste to them. They’d save Cooper, clear her name, right all wrongs. She felt the need for retribution swell through her, flow through her blood, pump through her heart. She would _destroy them all_.

Once again she rolls, feeling more settled, determined, and as if now she may fall into the peaceful abyss of sleep. Her eyes drift shut, the sheets finally giving way and freeing themselves from the confines of the mattress and frame. Liz feels as if her body is melting as she sinks into the soft foam.

A sharp rap at the door and the bark of her name has her launching herself at the glock on her bedside table, her heart thundering in her ears, vision blurring with adrenaline, as if she had moved too fast. She slips out from under the covers; gun cocked and poised as she approaches the door. Another knock on the door, so forceful it rattles on its hinges. Her hand grasps the brass handle as she looks through the peephole.

_Red._

She opens the door, a sharp reprimand dancing on her tongue. He shoves past her, weapon drawn, ignoring her shout of protest,

“What the _Hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

He looks dishevelled. He’s still in his suit pants, but his vest is gone and his shirt is rumpled and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He’s not wearing any shoes. Liz can see the tense muscles of his back shift as he stalks through her room. He throws open her wardrobe door with such strength that it smacks against the wall. He doesn’t flinch as he searches through her clothes. Then he moves to her bed, crouches as he checks under it. When he stands with his back to her, he keeps his head down, body heaving as he gasps for breath. She’s yet to see his expression. His grip shifts on the gun as he clicks the safety back on.

“Red?” She whispers, too frightened to approach him, standing back from him warily, as if he was a wild animal. His breathing is haggard, but he turns to face her, eyes averted and head down. His voice is rough when he speaks, not the soothing and controlled tones she’s used to.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Elizabeth,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

As he goes to walk past her Liz’s hand darts out and latches onto his wrist. He’s surprised and glances up at her and that’s when she notices his eyes. They’re glassy, red rimmed, as if he’d been crying. He stands stock-still as she assesses him, barely breathing. By the state of his clothes, he looks as if he had been sleeping.

“A nightmare,” she states, and he flinches. She tugs him back over to her bed, gently shoving him until he sits down. He leans on his knees, rubbing his hands over the back of his head and down his face. She’s never seen him look so vulnerable before.

_You are so damaged; you can’t accept help from anyone._

Liz sits on the bed next to him. His breathing is still erratic, so she waits.

_Has anyone ever helped you? Is that why you are the way you are because you don’t feel deserving of it?_

“I... I need to go check the bathroom, Lizzie,” he whispers, going to stand. She clamps her hand onto his forearm, a warning flashing through her eyes. “I’ll come back,” he murmurs, before brushing off her hand and entering the bathroom.

_Is that why you can’t be vulnerable for a second?_

As promised, but surprisingly, when he re-emerges he doesn’t dart to the door. Instead he joins her once again on the side of her bed. Resting her palm on his shoulder, she gently encourages him to drag himself up to the headboard. They lean against it, their bodies only a breath apart.

_I risked my life for you because I care about you._

And because she cares about him, Liz doesn’t ask what his nightmare was about, even though she has her suspicions. Instead, she flicks his arm up and around his shoulders and nuzzles into his side, because what he needs is warmth. His heartbeat is steady under her head and his eyes quizzical as he looks at her. He’s gnawing on the inside of his lip, Liz can see it.

“When did you watch Land before Time?” She asks. His fingers are drawing lazy circles on the skin of her upper arm, but as she speaks, they still. He clears his throat.

“I used to watch it with my daughter,” he responds, voice gruff but a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He glances down to Lizzie, who is watching him with rapt interest. “Her favourite character was Cera, but _I couldn’t stand Cera_ , her voice was atrocious.”

Lizzie laughs at the look of indignation on his face, as if the fictional character deeply offended him. He looks so relaxed now, smiling lazily with his shoes off and shirt crinkled.

“Who was your favourite character?” She thinks she can guess, knows him well enough to figure it out. The glint in his eyes shows her that he _knows_ that she knows.

“I always _adored_ Ducky, always so gentle and kind, but so _naive_ it was sometimes painful to watch.”

Liz stares at him, mouth slightly ajar.

“How could _Little Foot_ not be your favourite?” Lizzie shouts, aghast. She can feel the rumble of laughter roll through his chest. She had been so _sure_. His fingertips begin to move along her arm again, his eyes sparkling.

“That would have been awkward, Lizzie,” he teases, and she doesn’t understand, she feels her brow furrow and waits for him to continue. “We would have had the same toy.”

It had always smelled of home, tainted with Sam’s cigar smoke and pine, her Little Foot. She’d taken it everywhere with her, had practically been attached to it, a third limb. Sam had taken to calling it Butterball II and Lizzie had always delighted in it. She could feel Red watching her, his penetrating gaze gauging her reaction.

“You gave me Little Foot,” she mumbles and he slowly nods. “Did we ever watch it together?”

“Yeah, we did,” is his response, turning to look up at the ceiling, a sigh gusting out of him. “We watched it together with Sam. That was the last time I saw you until the Post Office.”

Liz bites her tongue, because there are many bitter and snarky comments she could make in reply to that, but Red is exhausted and vulnerable. She doesn’t want to ruin this. He presses his lips to her forehead as if in appreciation.

“Where are we going, Red?” She whispers, looking up at him. He huffs out a smile and brushes his thumb across her cheek.

“We’ll be docking in Auckland, should take a week or so to get there,” he replies softly, and she nods her head, satisfied.

They lay together in silence, both immersed in their own thoughts of one another. They are atop the covers, much to Liz’s disappointment when she notices that Red has drifted off to sleep, his face slack. She leans across him gently to flick off the lamp. The room is plunged into darkness and they both sleep, using each other for warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a comment and let me know you thoughts! Chapter Six should be up soon, most likely in a week or so!


	6. Risk

Days go by of chatting and sleeping and relaxing, not to mention the _drinking_. Lizzie fits in perfectly. Everyone adores her, especially Wilfred, as Red had predicted. He makes sure that Victoria stays well away, not from distrust, but Liz doesn’t need any further corruption in her life and Red hasn’t missed the glances that Liz shoots her way on occasion, curiosity and jealousy.

Neither of them talk about their first night on the yacht, both ignoring Red’s demons. They had woken up together, at the break of dawn, groggy and cold. They’d both slipped back under the covers, Liz grumbling that it was Red’s fault. They’d fallen back to sleep, only rising when one of the staff had knocked on the door, alerting them that breakfast would be ending soon. Red and Liz wandered down to breakfast feeling well rested.

They are due to arrive in Auckland in only a few hours and Red keenly feels the security of the yacht and the open waters slipping away. Once he and Liz walk off the _Seven Seas_ they are once again easy targets. The Cabal and FBI are scouring the globe for them. They most certainly would have contacts in New Zealand.

And that is why he is standing before Liz’s suite door once more, boxes of hair dyes piled on the tray he holds. He can hear her shifting around and hopes she hasn’t already had a shower, that she has merely risen late. The door cracks open, a small smile in place as she greets him, before she notices the tray. Her eyebrows draw into a frown.

“What’s that?” She asks as she steps aside and he walks into her suite. He sighs, because once again her room is a mess, the bed unmade and clothes tossed on the floor. She huffs at him and scoops some of the clothing off the floor and tosses them onto the bed. She turns and looks at him expectantly as if he is supposed to be satisfied now. He chokes back a surprised laugh.

“We will be docking in a few hours, Lizzie, and as much as it pains me to say, we may need to alter your appearance,” he states, glancing down at the tray he still holds.

“You want me to dye my hair?” She asks, eyeing the boxes sceptically, before taking the tray and placing it on the bed, over all of the rumpled clothes much to Red’s displeasure.

He simply nods his head and watches as she scrutinizes the different packages, sorting through the collection of colours. He had tried to cater to everything, copious brands and colours, hair types. He thinks that it will take her a while to decide, that perhaps he should leave, and as much as it unnerves him, to find Victoria, she has a certain expertise in this area. So he is surprised when she plucks a box out of the pile and turns to him, smirk in place.

“I take it, since you saw my highlights, that you won’t let me do this by myself?” She says, her tone serious but her eyes teasing. Red lets out a sharp bark of laughter and nods his head in agreement, tilting it as he watches her, eyes sparkling.

“No, I thought I’d recruit some help,” Red replies, “if you’re ready?”

Liz smiles at him, so brilliantly. She hasn’t smiled at him like that in a long time and Red’s heart aches at the sight, because once they arrive they’ll be back to how it was in Fiji, because once they arrive they’ll be fugitives once more with no one but each other. He clears his throat.

“Well, as you can see, hair is not particularly my forte,” he jokes, running a hand over his head before continuing, “I’ll be back in a few.”

Lizzie nods her head, eyeing the package in her hand, and sits on the edge of the bed. Red wonders if she’ll sit there until he returns. She looks up and smiles at him as he steps through the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him. Red could get used to those smiles again.

It doesn’t take him long to find Victoria, she’d always loved the sun. She is on deck, sprawled out on a towel by the pool. She is lying on her stomach, broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses on, bikini top undone and pulled to the side to avoid tan-lines. She sits up at his approach, seductive grin already in place, and hands covering herself.

“Red, would you mind tying me up?” She asks, tone teasing as she turns her back to him. He chuckles slightly and sits down, fingertips brushing against her too hot skin as he ties up the thin material. Her inky black hair cascades down her back as she flicks it over her shoulder to look at him.

“I take it your new favourite is ready for her little make over?” She states, fiddling with his tie, her fingers brushing against his collar bone. He reaches up and grabs her hand, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek as he does so.

“What makes you think she’s new?” He whispers, before pulling away and grinning at her. She laughs and gently smacks his chest. She pulls him to his feet and starts to stride away. Red keeps his eyes steadily on the back of her head, her bikini leaving virtually nothing to the imagination.

She spins around and smirks at him,

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Red, no reason to be so gentlemanly now,”

He resolutely ignores her as he leads her back to Lizzie’s room, each pace sending a spike of regret through his core as he realises that Victoria has no other clothing and wouldn’t deign to put any on anyway. She seems to be greatly amused by his discomfort.

Lizzie’s door is open when they arrive and Red feels his adrenaline spike, and Victoria eyes him warily as he reaches for the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. The sound of a raised voice only fuels Red’s panic and without knocking he barges into the room.

Wilfred turns to him, beaming, as does Liz, and Red hears Victoria snort in amusement at him. She stalks past, roughly patting him on the shoulder as she beelines for Lizzie.

“ _Red_ ,” Wilfred greets, shaking his hand, “thought I’d come say goodbye to dear Elizabeth before you leave, I assume you’ll want to be rather inconspicuous about it.”

Red nods his head, smiling brightly at the man before him, but eyeing Lizzie warily, she’s talking to Victoria and her tone seems strained, forced.

Wilfred seems to notice that Red’s attention is elsewhere and so, after giving his shoulder a squeeze, he bids them all a farewell and exits the room. Red feels as if the tension rises tenfold.

“So, Red asked me to help you out with dying your hair?” Victoria asks, stepping into Liz’s personal space and dragging her perfectly manicured fingers through Liz’s locks. Red watches as Liz tenses, fingers curling in the bed linen. He clears his throat and Victoria steps back.

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” Liz says through clenched teeth. Victoria looks positively delighted at the reaction, before snatching the dye Lizzie chose off the bed.

“You probably won’t need to stay for this, Raymond,” Victoria chimes as she wanders into the bathroom, hips swaying in a tantalizing fashion. Red glances to Lizzie and, though her eyes are blazing, she nods her head towards the door.

“I’ll be fine,” she says gruffly, “she’s just a bit full on. Go on.”

Red couldn’t agree more, and though he trusts Victoria, he stands planted across the hallway from Lizzie’s room after he, supposedly, leaves.

He stands there for what feels like hours, and knowing the care Victoria puts into her hair, it probably was.

Liz’s door cracks open and Victoria’s profile fills the frame, still clad in her bikini. She must be freezing now, but she shows no sign of it. Instead she just huffs at him, eyebrows raised.

“I figured you’d be waiting out here. She didn’t.”

Red laughs and shakes his head, smile in place. He steps past her and into Lizzie’s suite, briefly turning back to thank Victoria. She merely blows him a kiss and swaggers off down the hallway.

Lizzie is standing by the mirror, running her hand through her locks. Red stops by her bed, waiting for her to turn and look at him.

She seems nervous, smile small and posture slightly curled, her hands are fidgety.

“What’d you think?” Her voice is breathy, almost shaky.

Red is surprised by the strangled noise that escapes him. He sounds like a besotted school boy, choking on his words as she looks at him. She chose blonde. She looks like her mother.

She laughs at him, practically bounces forward. Red can see it in her eyes that she loves it; he can see it in the way she runs her hands through it with reverence. She keeps glancing at herself in the mirror and Red starts to believe that this is the change she needed, that perhaps he should have suggested it when they were holed up in some shack in San Francisco, only days after Connolly’s death.

“You look _radiant_ , Lizzie,” he manages at last, smiling back at her.

“Should I start packing? I take it we’re docking soon?” She asks, excited and eager. Red thinks that maybe this leg of their trip will be easier, that perhaps she’ll enjoy it more.

“Well, since Victoria took her _leisurely_ time, we’ll be docking in about forty minutes or so,” Red replies, sighing as Liz pulls out her suitcase.

It doesn’t take her long to pack, even though Red insists that it isn’t necessary, that their next safe house would have everything she needs. She ignores him. So, although he doesn’t actually mind, she has to put up with his grumbling as he lugs it off the _Seven Seas_.

They’d already bid Wilfred farewell, and though Red does care for the others, he and Liz leave without saying goodbye, because it’s easier this way, causes less of a scene. Liz seems disheartened and Red tries his best to not feel guilty.

They stroll along the harbour and Red is glad that Liz has donned something suitable for the climate, unlike Victoria. Even though it’s summer, the brisk wind bites through their clothes and he is eager to get to their car. Their driver, Jackson, is an older man, balding and wrinkled, his frame wiry and lean, but strong. He smiles as they approach, greeting Red warmly; they’d worked together several times previously.

As they slide into the backseat, Red’s phones buzzes. Liz laughs at him, breathing something about ‘not being off the boat for _two seconds_ ’, so he grins at her.

“Ah, hello, Mr. Reddington?”

Red feels his stomach jolt at the voice and he makes a conscious effort not to glance over at Lizzie, instead focusing his attention to the outside world.

“Yes, Jonathan!” He exclaims, hoping his voices doesn’t sound as false as it feels. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

There is a stuttering at the end of the line, and Red would usually gleam some kind of enjoyment out of it, but right now, with Lizzie so close, it is an unnecessary risk.

“Mr. Reddington... It’s, um, it’s Aram,” says the voice on the other end of the line and Red fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Oh yes, I am well aware,” Red responds, “but I am with company at the moment, so if you could please hurry this along it would be _greatly_ appreciated.”

“Yes, yes of course, sorry. I just, Dembe contacted me to tell me when I’d be able to contact you again. I just thought I’d let you know that Ressler thinks that you’re both in France at the moment,” Aram says hurriedly, Red finds that he almost misses the man.

“Brilliant, yes, well, just keep an eye on him, won’t you?” Red replies, before abruptly ending the call and slipping the phone back into his pocket. He can _feel_ Lizzie’s eyes on him.

“Who was that?” She asks and Red smirks at the forced casualness of her voice. He turns to her as she runs a hand through her hair once again.

“Just an old associate of mine, keeping tabs on dear Donald for us,” he replies, knowing that he isn’t completely lying to her. It makes it easier.

She narrows her eyes at him and it’s almost endearing, the way she chews on the inside of her lip like he does, scrutinising him. She nods her head once, accepting, and then turns away. She sighs quietly to herself.

It is dark by the time they arrive at their safe house. The cottage is small, quaint. Lizzie _adores it_ ; obvious to Red by the way she hurries out of the car leaving her luggage behind. Red drags it on to the cobbled path, asking Jackson to wait, before following Lizzie to the front door. Wisteria climbs along the porch and brick of the house, framing the redwood door, its purple flowers spilling down the walls. She looks over her shoulder at him, silently asking for permission. He puts his arm out,

“By all means, Lizzie.”

She darts inside and disappears into the house, the rug that runs the corridor muting her footsteps. Red walks through the small kitchen, well stocked as he’d asked, and into the living room. The fire crackles in the hearth, the orange of its flames dancing along the walls, over the plush couch and across the elegantly carved furniture; the chest in the corner and the dining table.

Lizzie popped around the corner, an apple already in her hand. He puts her case by the couch and leans against it.

“Don’t lose your appetite, sweetheart, we’re going out tonight,” he says, chuckling as she arches a brow at him, swiping her hand down her body to indicate her clothing; a grey hoodie and some black leggings.

“Yes, well you look lovely, Lizzie, but you may want to get changed.”

“I take it there are clothes already ironed in my room?” She asks, smirking at him as she spins on her heel and wanders off to get changed. Red turns to look at the fire.

It would be good to take her out, give her a sense of normalcy if only for a short time, she deserved that at least. When Mr Kaplan had suggested that Liz should dye her hair, Red hadn’t seen the point, it couldn’t change her appearance that drastically, surely? Unsurprisingly, when questioning Kate, Red had been wrong. Perhaps it was merely because at the moment she seemed happier, but with her blonde hair Lizzie seemed to _glow_.

She comes back to him only minutes later, in a soft blue cardigan, tight black jeans and brown lace-up boots. She’s kept her hair down, still fiddling with it.

“I’m ready when you are,” she grins, as she follows him to the door, Red was never one for pointless waiting. Jackson is where they left him, leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. He quickly drops it and rubs it into the ground with the heel of his foot, sliding into the driver’s seat as Red opens the door for Lizzie, following after her.

They sit in silence as the car glides through the city, the soft hum of the engine the only noise. Liz is bouncing her leg up and down, anxious or excited, Red is unable to tell.

The car pulls up to the curb in middle of the city, the nightlife surrounding them. Liz slips out of the car, and waits for Red on the sidewalk, eyeing those around her curiously, while he speaks with Jackson. When he turns to her, her eyes are tracking a couple across the street; she is rubbing her scar nervously.

“Anything particular you feel like eating, Lizzie?” He asks as he links his arm through hers and begins walking down the street, dodging those who had already had too much to drink. He quirks an eyebrow at her when she turns to him sharply.

“You don’t have anything planned?” She replies, tone shocked, eyebrows rocketing up into her hairline.

“Well, yes, of course, but ultimately it can be your decision, Lizzie. Anything you fancy?”

She pokes him in the ribs with her elbow, laughing lightly, as she replies that she’ll willingly stick to his plan, that he had not yet led her astray. Red bit down on his tongue, guilt rising within him at the comment. Though he knew she was joking, the truth, or lack thereof, stings more than she could comprehend.

Once they finally arrive at the restaurant that Red has chosen, Liz is mumbling that she is _positively starving_ , and Red chuckles at her and tells her that she is acting like a child. The walk had done them good after the week of being confined to the _Seven Seas_. Liz looks at him sceptically before pursuing the menu. Red watches as her eyes flicker over the options, and she is once again chewing on her lip. His tongue glides over his own unconsciously.

He glances away from her, focuses his eyes on the patrons around him. Mingling and chatting and picking at their expensive food while they sip at their pricey wine. A woman sits alone at a table, posture rigid as she chews at her food mechanically, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her profile is sharp, jaw line angular and cheekbones defined. Her green eyes jump around the room nervously, until they settle onto him, widening.

Red is aware that Liz is speaking to him, probably asking him whether to get chicken or beef, but he focuses only on pulling the burner phone out of his pocket. He dials the number of the driver, eyes flickering up to see Lizzie frowning at him. She’s unimpressed by his table manners.

After a few short words with Jackson, enough time for Lizzie to notice the forced calmness in his voice, he stands and grasps her wrist, walking her briskly to the front door, hand placed on the small of her back. He registers the screeching of a chair, the journalist following after them. He dumps the burner phone in a bucket of ice and water that they pass.

Lizzie is asking him questions quietly, trying to remain calm but he can feel her muscles tensing. He doesn’t answer as they step outside, the driver waiting for them, door already open. Jackson steps forward and ushers Lizzie inside the car, rather forcefully, as she resists, trying to claw her way back to him.

“Red?” She pleads, because she is terrified, he’s all she has now. He feels the presence of two, incredibly large, men looming beside him and then stepping past him, towards the car, but his eyes are only for her. They’re bright and shining with fear as the door slams closed; her hands come up to rest on the window. He smiles sadly, nods his head once, and is reminded of Anslo’s attack on the Post Office. Her expression is similar to then. She’s shaking her head at him as the brutes lunge for the car door, but it speeds off into the traffic, horns and brakes screaming in its wake.

The two men turn back to him, and both grip his arms tightly. He attempts to shrug them off, but to no avail, so he settles for straighten his tie. They begin dragging him down the street, the crowds of people splitting before them, assuming that Red is just one more man who had drank too much. Red eyes those they pass, looking for some kind of weapon he could use, some way of escape. He catches the eye of one brave, and incredibly stupid, man who notices Red’s clear eyes and steady walk, that perhaps he isn’t drunk. Red feels a sliver of pity as the young man lunges out at them, grasping one of the thugs by the arm, shouting to let him go.

The brute reacts as if he is a wild animal. He releases Red’s arm and slams his fist into the poor unsuspecting man’s throat. That is all the distraction Red needs.

He wrenches his arm away from his other captor, bouncing back agilely as the beast of a man stumbles forward. Red stomps down on his arm, feeling and hearing the snap of bone beneath his Italian leathers. He turns quickly on his heel, navigating through the masses, listening intently to the commotion that is following him. He snatches his fedora off, placing it on the head of a man, vomiting against a shop front. Red sheds his jacket, grasping a hoodie that is draped over the back of a chair at the front of a bar and slipping it on, leaving jacket and vest in his wake.

Red makes an abrupt turn down a dark alley, the stench of piss, vomit and garbage so intense he almost chokes on it. He marvels at his captors’ stupidity, feeling the butt of his gun grinding into the small of his back, they had not unarmed him. They would not get a chance to rectify their mistake.

A shout at the back of the street has him rolling his eyes, the Cabal _really_ needed to improve their New Zealand contacts if this is who they had currently employed. Red turns slowly, drawing his gun and aiming it steadily at the men before him. One has his weapon drawn; the other is holding his limp arm, stifling groans. Before them, on her knees, is the journalist. Her hair has come loose and she is sobbing hysterically, pleading for her life.

“Let her go,” Red orders, shifting his grip on the gun, as the brute jams the shaft of his weapon into the back of her neck. As the first shot rings out the journalist drops dead with a wet gurgle, the second and third shots see the thugs slumping to the ground, a bullet in each of their heads. He strides over and quickly pats them down, blood staining his hands. He pulls out one of their phones, pocketing it for himself. Once finished, he steps over their bodies and walks out of the alley before the crowds begin to gather, the screaming begins to start. He _detests_ the screaming.

He begins to amble his way down the road, absently rubbing his arm where the Cabal’s lackeys had grabbed him. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out the phone, Red is not all that surprised to see that it is already ringing. The number is blocked.

“Yes?” He answers, left cheek twitching at the voice on the other end of the line.

“Do not expect us to take it that easy on you again, Reddington, they were assets that we no longer had a use for,” drones the soft voice of the Director.

“Well, I must admit that is a relief to hear, I was concerned. Not to worry, I dealt with them easily enough for you,” Red responds cheerily, hailing a taxi. The Director ignores his comment.

“We’re coming for you, Reddington. We’re coming for _her_.”

The line clicks dead and Red drops it onto the road as he slides into the taxi. He almost barks the address to the driver, who in response glances disapprovingly in the rear-view mirror. Red is anxious to see Lizzie, to confirm that she is safe, at home.

_Not home for long_ , he thinks. They will need to leave immediately, head somewhere far away. His stomach twists at the thought of dragging Lizzie away from the cottage, where she seemed so pleased, where perhaps she could have recovered some kind of level of happiness.

The drive is slow, excruciatingly so, but eventually the taxi pulls up a couple of blocks away. Red was not willing to lead _them_ straight to the safe house, even if it had already been compromised. He pays the taxi driver, and waits for him to pull away from the curb, before heading back towards the cottage.

He is plunged into the memory of his walk home Christmas Eve, after he had run out of gas; the long fateful walk that had altered his life completely. He blinks hard, shakes his head, tries to rid himself of the red, of the blood, that gushes before his eyes. He quickens his pace, eager to see Liz, to reassure himself that she is safe.

The gravel crunches under his feet as he enters the driveway, from where he is he can see Jackson standing with his back against the door. Red frowns, waiting for an explanation as he approaches.

“I had to lock her in,” Jackson comments idly, smothering a smile as Red’s expression darkens. The driver steps away, casually waving off the thanks Red offers him.

He grits his teeth, mentally preparing himself as the doorknob turns under his hand. He steps in and see’s her slumped against the wall at the far end of the corridor. Her hair has come loose; she is barefoot, cheeks tearstained. When she looks up at him, her eyes are stormy, her jaw set.

“Lizzie...” He begins, not sure if he is furious with her blatant attempt at escape, or that he feels he needs to explain to her, that he needed to keep her safe. It doesn’t matter either way, because she cuts him off with a jerky shake of her head.

She pushes herself off the wall, ignoring Red’s offered hand, as she stands. He withdraws it slowly, studying her as she studies him.

“After everything that we’ve been through, Reddington, after the incident with Connolly, you’re still just happy to shove me away when things get dangerous?” She demands, clenching her hands into fists.

“I’ve said that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, Lizzie, I intend to keep my word,” Red responds, trying to stay calm and reasonable before her fury.

“I know what you’ve said, again and again, you promise that you’ll protect me. Are you planning on including yourself, Reddington? You, who have wreaked havoc throughout my life? You, who have caused more pain in a few short years than I have ever experienced in all my life? Are you capable of protecting me from yourself?” Her voice is rising in volume, she is almost screaming at him, and Red is chewing on the inside of his cheek, guilt clawing its way up his throat. He can’t respond, can’t bring himself to utter what haunts him; that, eventually, he may be the death of Elizabeth Keen. Thankfully, she powers on in her rage, ignoring his silence, filling it with her fury.

“And what about you? Who is going to keep you safe?”

Red’s eyes jump up to meet hers, confusion flickering through them. She steps forward abruptly and he notices that she is trembling.

“Who else do you _have_?” She snarls, and she grabs him by the jumper he is still wearing, roughly shaking him. His hands come up instinctively, grasping her wrists and smearing her skin red with blood. He stills, and so does she, because it is the most horrifying thing he has ever witnessed. It is a true testament of Raymond’s Reddington’s life, whatever he holds dear, ends up covered in blood. He drops his hands and jerks away, but she follows him. Tears are welling in her eyes now, spilling down her cheeks. She won’t release him.

“You have _me_ , Red, we’re a _team_ ,” she whispers, voice choked. “You’re all that I have _left_ , I can’t lose you too.”

When he still doesn’t respond, her gaze flickers down to his chest, her fingers twisting the fabric she holds. Her breath is ghosting across his face, she is so _warm_.

“Connolly threatened you, he _threatened_ you, so I _shot_ him,” Liz mumbles, and her voice is both hard and soft, hard because of the lengths she went to, soft because she does not regret it. Red stares at her, processing her confession.

“Lizzie,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to her forehead before resting his own against hers. “I asked you to promise me that you would never do that again.”

She tightens her grip, tensing, ready to fight once more. So Red leans back to smile at her softly, because right now she doesn’t need to be admonished, she needs to be comforted. She’d _murdered_ for him, and tonight he had almost thrown away her sacrifice. Her brows knit together in confusion, so he leans back in, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“Thank you,” he rumbles, delighting in her huff of laughter as she in turn pulls back to look at him. Her eyes are still teary, but at least now she is smiling, no matter how wobbly it may be.

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your Kudos and lovely comments! They are greatly appreciated!


	7. A Place of Green Trees

Red had mentioned, after he managed to get her to her bedroom and tucked in, that he wanted to get them to Europe, into the Northern Hemisphere and somewhere isolated, where the Cabal would struggle to find them. She nodded sleepily into her pillow, willing to follow him as long as they were together, as long as he didn’t leave her like he had that night.

So as she pads out into the kitchen, sleepily grasping the coffee that Red has left her on the bench, she frowns at his agitated tone in the living room. She pokes her head around the corner, and there he is; dressed in a dark blue suit and brown shoes, his fedora perched on his head and burgundy sunglasses on. He holds a phone to his ear and he’s pacing before the hearth. He seems frustrated, but when he glances over and sees Lizzie in her daggy pyjama pants and t-shirt, his face softens and he ends the call with a few abrupt words. There are purple smudges beneath his eyes; he didn’t get any sleep.

“Change of plans, Lizzie, we won’t be heading back to Europe today,” He indicates to the phone in his hand, “an associate has made contact, they believe that the Cabal has already alerted most of their contacts within Europe that it is where we are most likely to go. They’re ready for us.”

Lizzie sighs after she takes a sip of her coffee, glancing around the beautiful cottage, wishing that they could stay longer.

“So, where are we going?”

Red smiles at her sadly, because he knows that she wants to stay here, but there isn’t the _slightest_ possibility that he would allow that to happen.

“Luckily, my contact has an answer for us. We will be heading to Australia, or Adelaide to be more specific. There is a family there; they’ll be willing to shelter us for a few weeks.”

Liz grimaces, bile rising in her throat, at the thought of endangering an innocent family. She wonders if Red is conscious of the fact that he is setting the Hounds of Hell on them. Going by the darkness in his eyes, the slight downturn of his lips, he is. So Liz jerkily nods her head and goes to pack her bags once more. She idly contemplates never unpacking again.

Red doesn’t follow her, doesn’t try to stop her like he has every other time they’ve had to up and leave, and Liz doesn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps he has just given up, but that didn’t seem like him. So she folds her clothes with a frown, unconsciously gnawing on the inside of her lip.

Liz drags her suitcase outside, not looking back at the cottage, knowing that it would only sadden her further. Jackson approaches, a small smile on his face. She passes him her suitcase, pointedly avoiding looking at the dark purpling on his cheek. Her eyes flicker over to Red, his mouth is set in a grim line; he is disappointed. She feels a slight pang of regret shoot through her, though not for her actions. She’d come to the conclusion, perhaps more of a realisation, that she would now go to any lengths necessary to keep Raymond Reddington alive.

They drive to the airport in silence, the tension between them stifling. Red’s expression seems calculating as he stares out the window. Though they’d gone to bed with a relatively good humour between them, there were many things left unsaid. He was furious, probably still is, that she’d attempted to go back after him, to escape and endanger herself. Liz can’t bring herself to care, and so she stares stonily out of her own window, waiting for his sulk to end.

Jackson glides the car up to a private airstrip and the plane awaiting them isn’t Red’s. After they bid the driver goodbye, and Liz apologises for the night before, she glances at Red questioningly. He informs her that a friend owed him, that they’d be able to pass through airspace reasonably undetected, or merely unquestioned. They lapse back into silence as they board the plane, Red rubbing at his eyes as if they are dry.

Once they take flight, Liz leans over and places her hand on Red’s knee. He lounges across from her, a glass of scotch in his hand. He quirks an eyebrow at her, his eyes briefly flickering down to her hand. She quickly retracts it, noticing the twitch in his cheek as she does so.

“You should sleep, Red,” she tells him, not sounding half as confident as she had first planned to be. He had unsettled her. “You look like you could use it.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but he shakes his head before taking a sip of his scotch. She wonders if he plans on drinking his way into oblivion. She stands and he tilts his head to look up at her, bringing his arms into his side so she has room to sit.

She grabs the jacket he had draped onto the arm of the sofa, appreciating the soft wool beneath her fingertips. His brows knit together as she folds it into a makeshift pillow and places it on her lap. She pats it expectantly, meeting his questioning gaze.

“I’m fine, Lizzie,” he mumbles, looking away from her and towards the cockpit. She needs him to do this, needs to feel his presence and reassure herself that he is okay, _alive_. Last night had been agonising, terrifying.

She remembers screaming at Jackson, lunging for the wheel, because they’d just _left_ Red back there, _alone_. He’d smiled at her, that self-sacrificing smile she’d seen too often, sad, certain and resolved as they’d screeched off into the night, leaving smoke in their wake. Jackson had resorted to pulling a gun on her, at her wild efforts of escape, his expression grim as he navigated through traffic, only one hand on the wheel. She’d leant away from the weapon, but managed to scoff at him, calling his bluff, because if he hurt her and Red survived, _God let him survive_ , the Concierge of Crime would surely, and mercilessly, kill him. He shrugged, countering that if _he_ let her go after him, Red would kill him anyway. He kept the gun trained on her, so she sat in her chair, panic roiling within her as she tried to rearrange her scattered mind, to form some kind of plan to get him back.

As the car crunched to a stop on the gravel of the driveway, Liz struck out. Her fist connected with his stubbled jaw. He let out strangled shout and for a second she thought that she had a chance of getting out and away, before his fingers latched onto her wrist. He was stronger than she had expected, his hands hard and unforgiving. She squirmed and swore and kicked out, but he did not release her. He waited for her to tire out, to stop struggling, his hands like iron, and much to Liz’s disgust she did, feeling the adrenaline begin to ebb away. She slid, boneless, down in her seat, breathing haggard and fighting off tears. She tiredly levelled her gaze with the barrel of the gun he had pointed at her. She flicked her door open and got out, sullenly walking up to the cottage.

As Liz reflects upon the night, she wonders at how easily she had given up, that if their positions had been reversed, how Red would have responded. She shudders at the thought, knowing that he would have burned the world down and most likely himself to find her. She wonders if, subconsciously, she’d known that he’d come back to her, that he always had welcomed or not. He was an unstoppable force of nature, barely human. Fierce, powerful, a _Sin Eater_. She glances back to him and he is facing her now, his gaze unwavering, eyes green and striking.

“Just get some sleep, Red,” she sighs and there must have been something he notices in her tone, perhaps how broken she felt, how she needs assurance like the night before, because he hesitantly lies down. He places his head in her lap and stares up at her. Liz feels her entire body still as he coaxes her down to lie beside him. It’s tight and there is little room to move and his body is pressed against her, but she eventually relaxes into him. She grips the fabric of his shirt in her hands, making sure he is secure in the precarious position he has put himself in. She presses her forehead to his chest feeling it rise and fall with his calming breaths. His heartbeat is steady under her fingers.

She doesn’t dare fall asleep, though her eyes are closed. She feels when his body finally gives way to the exhaustion that is tugging at him. The light grip of his hand on her waist slackens, sliding off her body to rest between them. His breathing has become deeper, slower and his legs give the occasional twitch. She opens her eyes, his face inches from hers, his breaths puffing over her face. This isn’t the first time she has watched Red sleep. When he’d come to her in the middle of the night while they were abroad the Seven Seas she’d watched him then, too. It is interesting, the way in sleep he looks so at peace, his lips parted and mouth slightly ajar. He snuffles and mumbles like any other person, eyes flickering beneath lids while he dreams. Liz looks at him and realises that Raymond Reddington, though twisted and dark, powerful and murderous, is just as human as her. It is a terrifying discover.

“Lizzie, it’s rude to stare,” he mumbles, a small smile flickering over his lips as she jolts slightly. Perhaps he isn’t _that_ human.

They lay that way until the pilot announces that they will be landing soon, whispering nonsense to each other. Red murmurs his usually loud anecdotes quietly, keeping Lizzie entertained as they fly, her cheeks beginning to tire from smiling and giggling. His eyes are sparkling with amusement.

They sit up, groggy from the warmth of their bodies. Red, though he got some rest, still looks drained, his shoulders slightly rounded.

“I think you’ll like Jane and George, Lizzie, they’re good people,” Red comments casually as they exit the plane, the car awaiting them idling. A driver steps out to greet them, grabs Liz’s luggage from Red and heaves it into the boot as they slip into the backseats.

Liz feels as if all they do is fly and run, which isn’t all that surprising if she thinks about it, but it’s fuelling her anxiety levels to all new heights. She wants to settle somewhere, for at least a month, find somewhere they can both recuperate. She wonders how long the haven Red has found them will last.

They drive for what feels like hours, first through busy suburbia and along highways until they break through a barrier and the landscape turns to rolling hills, vineyards, paddocks. What Liz presumes was once luscious green grass has turned yellow with the heat of the sun that beats down upon it. She always hears that Australia is hot, but the sheer intensity of the sun as it bakes the landscape is shocking and her pale skin is turning red where she sits. She shifts uncomfortably, leaning closer to Red trying to shade herself.

“It says something about a country when they’re bushfire alert system has ‘high’ as its second level,” Red mentions, slightly amused. He mustn’t mind the heat all that much, dressed as he is in his suit and tie. It was getting ridiculous; his loyalty to fashion.

“So, what’s the highest level then?” Liz asks, “Severe?”

He laughs at that and shakes his head, he returns his gaze to the landscape outside as they pass through a little bustling town. A farmers market is on, pedestrians wandering onto the road taking no notice of the traffic as they walk their dogs or push prams. The driver mumbles something as he comes to a stop, waiting for a family to cross.

“Catastrophic,” he eventually replies.

They pass through the town and begin to head into the hills, winding their way up. Liz gasps as she spots some kangaroos lounging in the shade, licking at their wrists and watching as the car glides past.

The driver laughs and says,

“They’re cute until they jump out in front of you and right your car off,” he states, accent thick, shaking his head and frowning at the animals. Liz can see his foot hovering over the brakes. That must happen often, then.

“How far?” She asks either Red or the driver, waiting to see which would respond.

“About five minutes or so,” Red answers, offering her a smile as she sits back into her seat, giving a sigh of relief.

They pull into a driveway, undulated, gravelly and steep. They pass paddocks and sheds as they move down, being jostled around uncomfortably. The house comes into view; it is long and the roof is green, sheltered by towering eucalypts.

The driver pulls the car to a stop, the opening by the house now paved. The house itself is all logs and windows. Hanging pots full of succulents are suspended from the veranda, a stack of firewood piled against one of the walls. Red steps out the car, donning his hat, addressing someone warmly, which has Liz turning quickly to greet their host.

She’s a young girl, barefoot and smiling. Her hands are shoved in the pockets of her shorts and she swaggers forwards towards Red. He leans in, kissing her on the cheek. Her blonde hair flows down her back as she bounces back, turning her sharp blues eyes to Lizzie. Her features are soft, smile crooked.

“How’s it going?” She greets, watching as the driver passes Liz’s luggage to Red, “Need any help with that Red?” she asks, but in a typical teenage fashion, that really seems as if she doesn’t want to help but is offering because that’s what her parents would want. Red waves her back, so she turns back to Lizzie.

“I’m Mia, you must be Lizzie?” She asks, and while Liz nods her head, she hears Red chime in from behind them.

“Just Liz, Mia.”

Liz narrows her eyes at him and tosses an embarrassed smile at Mia, but the girl just nods her head and heads towards the house. From within shrill barking can be heard and then as they round a corner and can see through the door, the little white dog becomes visible.

Mia slides the door open, scooping the ball of fluff into her arms and scolding it for barking. She walks into the house saying over her shoulder,

“Sorry, she gets weird when mum and dad are out.”

“Just doing as a dog should, then,” Red comments disappearing down a hallway with her luggage. Liz glances around the room. It is in the shape of a hexagon, the walls are windows looking out onto a magnificent view to the south. The dining table, chest and draws are all pine, the floor; sandstone. There is a fireplace and the TV hangs on the wall beside it. The couches are bright red and a piece of art, depicting a desert with deep reds and bright blues, hangs on the wall by the hallway that Red had disappeared down.

“That’s an incredible view,” Liz comments, walking to stand by the windows to look out. The lawn is green, short. Tibetan prayer flags are attached to the veranda and flow out across the grass and are tied to a tree. A statue of Ganesh is surrounded by agapanthus. The view leads to the vineyards her and Red surely passed during their journey here, and then it stretches out to the ocean.

Mia laughs, putting the dog back onto the ground, its claws clicking on the tiles as it trots over to sniff Liz.

“Yeah, everyone says that. Suppose I’ve gotten used to it,” she replies, sliding on to the table, kicking her legs out in front of her. “Would you like a coffee or something? Pa should be home soon.”

Liz politely declines, and she hears Red call that he’d love a scotch if Mia thinks her dad could spare some. The girl snorts and disappears down the hallway. Liz follows after her and turns a corner to find supposedly her own and Red’s room. It is nothing special, just two single beds pushed together and a mirror in the corner. She can hear Red chatting with Mia further into the house, and follows his voice.

They’re standing by the bar, Mia pulling out a glass and allowing Red to pour himself some Scotch. She shakes her head at them and Mia elbows him in the ribs. They both look at her, expressions chagrined, and Liz finds herself questioning how long these two have known each other. They converse so easily, relaxed in each other’s presence.

“So, take it your here to talk to dad?” Mia questions, running her hand through her hair and shifting her weight. Red nods his head, takes a sip of his drink and as he goes to explain, Liz cuts him off.

“Are you still going to school, Mia?” Liz finds herself asking, trying to protect the girl from Red, from his business and perhaps get _him_ to realise that she is just a young girl, that there is no need to involve her. He flickers his gaze over to her and then back to Mia.

“Yeah, in my last year, praise the Lord,” she replies, her eyes drifting back over to Red, brow creased slightly. “Think you could bump up my grades, Red? Give me a bit of a helping hand?”

The man in question chuckles, eyes glinting.

“Of course, I built up my entire _empire_ for this purpose. Consider it done, sweetheart,” Red replies, his tone teasing.

“Speaking of school, I should probably go do some homework,” Mia comments, “can’t rely on you for everything, can I, Red?”

She disappears back down the corridor, little dog in her wake. Liz turns to Red, confusion warring with suspicion within her, and grasps the glass of scotch from him. She raises it to her lips, his eyes following her, and takes a gulp of the amber liquid.

“Seems like a nice girl,” Liz says, trying to keep the curiosity out of her voice. He presses his hand to the small of her back and guides her to their shared room.

“Very mature for her age, a lot of fun, a bit too smart for her own good,” Red supplies, shutting the door behind them. Liz perches herself on the edge of her bed, grinning to herself as his eyes jump over to the mirror to glance at his reflection, he then unconsciously tightens his tie.

“There is something about her, something I can’t place,” Liz remarks, gauging Red’s reaction. He turns to look at her, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She seems awfully interested in you.”

He laughs at her, and she’s not sure if he thinks that she’s jealous, or that he’s amused that the girl has crush on him. He throws back the rest of his scotch before answering.

“I think you may be mistaken, Lizzie,” Red replies, “Mia has her eyes set on another prize, one far less dangerous but just as hard to obtain.”

Before Liz gets a chance to respond, there is a quiet knock on the door. Red opens it and Mia is standing there, phone in hand.

“Dad just sent me a message, says it’s important that I tell you,” she says, her tone urgent, “it’s about a man.”

Liz doesn’t miss the way the girl’s eyes jump over to her before once again settling on Red. She feels dread coil around her heart.

“It’s about Harold Cooper.”

Lizzie wonders how many times she’ll hear that sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate your comments! Thank you for reading!


	8. Extraction

Liz is curled up on the couch trying to watch the film Mia has playing on the TV, trying not to listen to the muted tones of Red and Mia’s father, George, in the kitchen. She grips her legs so tightly that angry crescent moons mar her skin. The girl keeps glancing over at her, concern etched into her young features.

At first Liz had wanted to be involved in whatever it was Red and George were discussing about Cooper, but Red had stood firm, told her to not get involved. Rage had split within her, and she’d snarled that she already was _involved_ , but as the argument dragged on, Red seemed to become more desperate, imploring. Liz was able to sense when he was trying to protect her, from not only others, but herself. Mia had stepped into the room then, gently grabbing Liz’s arm and tugging her away.

So now she stared bleary eyed into vacant space, trying to rid herself of ideas that came from the unknown. Hoping that he’d deign to tell her some details, that he’d do just enough to prevent her from falling to pieces once more. Liz’s bones ached with exhaustion.

“How much do you know?” Liz asks, her voice hoarse. Mia snaps her attention away from her phone and back onto Liz, her eyes darting over to the kitchen, Red’s voice rising slightly.

“Enough to know what Red is, enough to know that this bloke, Cooper, he’s in a world of trouble. I just don’t know if Red is going to kill him, or save him,” her tone is soft, calm, but her eyes return back to the kitchen.

“He won’t hurt you,” Liz tries to reassure her, because she seems edgy and nervous, as if Red’s presences is unsettling her, threatening to stop her from divulging what she knows.

Mia laughs at that, loudly, and the kitchen falls quiet briefly. She turns back to face Liz and she’s grinning. She looks as if she has never feared Red, never had any reason and wouldn’t ever start to.

“Course he wouldn’t, he’s Red,” she states as if that should make perfect sense to Liz, and it would, if Liz had been the one to say it, but she hadn’t. This girl gave Red her unwavering loyalty and Liz wanted to know _why_.

“What is he to you?” Liz whispers, coming to sit on the couch Mia occupies. “He seems a little old for you, if I’m honest.”

The girl’s eyes darken at that. She stares at the cold and unlit fireplace, chewing on her lip, clenching and unclenching her left hand. Liz has struck a nerve.

“Age means shit,” she replies and she believes it, there is so much conviction in her voice, “if you care about someone, their age shouldn’t matter, it’s about _who they are_. I’m not interested in Red, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve known him since I was eight and though I barely ever see him I know he’s always there. He’s helped raise me, I feel, looked after me and understood me like no one else. If it’s his age that’s holding _you_ back, don’t let it, that’s bullshit for him and yourself.”

And with a reassuring smile, as if to let Liz know that she wasn’t angry at _her_ , but at the _world_ , she gets up and strides into the kitchen. The murmuring stops and Liz can hear Mia huff out an arrogant laugh, before walking back into the living room, a cup of yoghurt in hand. She sits back down next to Liz and returns her attention back to the television.  
They sit like that, occasionally murmuring to each other, until Red and George emerge from the kitchen. They both look exhausted, George’s black ponytail is coming loose, and Red walks as if he is sore, ginger.

George is a bear of a man, his skin is tanned and tough, his hair black and thick. He has a round face, like his daughter, but his features are sharper, more prominent. Both men collapse onto the couch, silent. Liz tries to get Red’s attention, but he pointedly watches the TV.

Mia’s mother, Jane, is away currently, in Brisbane visiting family, so Liz helps her make pasta for dinner. It’s quick and easy and guessing from Mia’s enthusiastic approach, it’s her favourite meal. They all sit on the couches together and eat, chatting quietly, all trying to ignore the underlying tension and apprehension.

Eventually George bids them goodnight and Mia soon follows, walking past the kitchen and into her own room.

It’s just her and Red now.

“What’s the plan?” she asks and her voice is a bit too strained. He notices and leans over to grasp her hand. His own are dry and warm. His thumb caresses her knuckles.

“We’re going to break him out,” Red replies eventually. His voice is gravelly and stare, intense. She pulls her hand away from him and he sighs, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling, something he only does when he is deep in thought.

“Why would you do that? That will confirm his guilt if he runs, there will be no way of clearing his name!” She hisses at him, standing to pace. His eyes track her across the room, before he stands and moves to the kitchen. She waits for him to return and when he does he is holding an envelope. He taps it against his leg, looking apprehensive.

“It won’t be a breakout, Lizzie, it will be a rescue,” he murmurs, extending the envelope out to her. She takes it hesitantly, slipping her thumb under the flap and exposing the photographs within. She feels Red step closer, hovering beside her.

When Lizzie sees the first image, a voice in the back of her mind tells her that she shouldn’t be surprised, but that doesn’t prevent the horror from consuming her. She stumbles backwards slightly before Red’s hand rests between her shoulder blades.

The images are of surveillance footage of Harold Cooper. He’s strung up by his wrists, the harsh wire they have used slicing into his skin. His clothing is torn and bloodied. Through the tears in the fabric, his malnourished body is visible, ribs looking as if they were about to split the skin. His face is almost unrecognisable, purple and swollen.

Liz feels as if she is about to vomit. She allows Red to guide her over to the couch on shaky legs. He sits and she all but collapses next to him. She flicks through the rest of the photographs, the first just as horrifying as the rest. Harold Cooper is being maliciously tortured because of her. _Murderer_.

She flinches as Red grasps her by the shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s talking to her softly, saying her name, leaning in closer. He needs her attention, so he delicately grasps her chin and turns her to face him. She can feel hot tears gliding down her cheeks.

“We’re going to get him back, Lizzie. I’ve already put plans in place. Harold and his family will be safely out of America and into hiding in the next few days,” he says, trying to console her, to ease her rapid breaths and tears. She can feel his grip tighten on her shoulder.

“It’s a trap, Red, surely you can see that?” She whispers, meeting his gaze. He doesn’t have to answer; his gaze shows that he is aware of that fact. His jaw is clenched, he is resolute. He’ll get Cooper back, for no one else but Liz.

“You’d burn the world to keep me happy,” she states. A sad smile creeps over his face and he presses his lips to her forehead, lingering. He sighs.

“You make me sound so _dramatic_ , Lizzie,” he says in reply, deflecting once more, but she knows it’s true. He’s shown his hand too many times already. “And do try for some humility; Harold is a _dear_ friend of mine.”

That elicits a smirk from her, and she follows him as he stands and heads towards their bedroom. Her limbs feel heavy and she still clasps the photographs, crumpled now, in her hands. Red politely turns his back as she changes, fingers fumbling at the button of her jeans. She slips into bed, and rolls onto her side. Red raises an eyebrow at her, shedding his jacket, vest and suit pants. He still strikes an imposing figure as he crawls into his own bed, in his dress shirt and briefs.

“I know that you think it’s best if you don’t keep me up to date about Cooper,” she begins, waiting from him to look at her. “But, please let me know when you get him out, when you get him safe.”

He rolls over, smile soft and nods his head. His eyes are kind, even in the dark she can see the way they dart over her face. Liz feels her eyes slide shut, still feeling sick. The images of Cooper are burned into her retinas. She falls into a restless sleep, Red watching over her.

When she wakes in the morning, she can hear Mia and Red talking in the next room. She rolls over sleepily, reaching for the clothes she’d left on the floor the previous night. She ignores the envelope and its contents. She pads down the hallway and sees them sitting around the dining table, nursing cups of tea.

“Morning,” Mia greets, “feel free to grab anything from the kitchen, or get Red to grab you something. I’m not the best host.”

Liz smiles and makes her way into the kitchen. There are crumbs on the bread board surrounded by butter and jam and other such spreads. She gets herself some toast and heads back over to Red, sitting in the chair next to him.

“Shouldn’t you be at school, Mia?” Liz inquires, munching on her toast and glancing over to Red. He has already showered. He looks refreshed and alert, beige suit tailored perfectly.

“Nah, this seems a lot more entertaining than school,” she replies, to which Red chuckles and shakes his head. “Red was asking if he could borrow my car, sounds like he’s got some plans for the day.”

Liz, presuming that those plans include her, turns to him questioningly. He offers her no answers as he sips his tea, but his eyes glint mischievously. She shakes her head at him and focuses on finishing her toast and then goes to get dressed.

She slips on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting shirt, material thin, as she can already feel the heat of the day seeping through the walls. Her eyes are drawn to the rumpled envelope on the floor, its contents threatening to spill onto the soft blue carpet. With a shuddering breath she picks it up, willing herself to not look inside and to deliver them back to Red.

“Here,” his soft voice rumbles. He is leaning against the doorframe, arm extended and palm upwards as he waits for her to move over to him. She does so, slowly, because she fears if she moves too fast the feeling of despair will overcome her. He takes them from her gently, eyes locked on to hers as he slips them into his jacket pocket. She breathes through parted lips, chest aching.

He slips his arm into hers and leads her back out into the living room. Mia tosses her car keys to Red, proclaiming that she should attempt to get some homework done, before disappearing into her room. Red and Liz bid her goodbye, heading out to the car.

“Think you can handle driving on the wrong side of the road?” she attempts to tease, but her voice is a bit too hoarse for the effect to come across. He turns to her anyway, with such a look of mock-offense that she can’t help but laugh.

They slide into the car and as Liz picks up the AUX cord and plugs her phone in Red shifts uncomfortably in his seat. She looks up at him, frowning. He opens his mouth, rolls his tongue over his lips as he searches for something to say.

“What?” she asks and is answered with a defeated sigh.  
“There are no keys,” he admits, rubbing a hand over his face to hide his embarrassed smile, “I don’t know how to turn it on.”

Liz chuckles at him, leaning over the gear stick, handbrake and, in turn, Red’s lap. He shifts again, clearing his throat as she instructs him, using her hand for balance on his knee.  
“Put your foot on the brake; it’s a touch start, Red.”

Liz pushes down on the button and the car spurts to life. She leans back from him and he thanks her, voice breaking slightly. She laughs at his ignorance, teasing him by wondering aloud how he manages to survive without Dembe. He snorts at that, steering the car up the steep and gravelly drive way.

They wind through the hills, dropping into little towns and getting coffees and gourmet snacks. Red talks and talks about the towns and their history, leaving Liz in awe of his knowledge of such trivial things. She soon comes to the realisation that Red never had a specific destination in mind; he was just driving to keep her distracted. She sinks back into her seat, small smile in place as she watches out of the window. Red has fallen silent, so she turns to look at him, to find that his green eyes have settled on her. They quickly jump back to the road, and although Liz’s stomach flipped at the sight, she must agree that it’s a better idea that he keeps his eyes on the road.

They eventually, after traversing the country side and roaring down dirt roads, leaving a trail of dust behind them, arrive at a small secluded beach. Cliffs rise above them on either side, and the only sound is the soft crash of waves and the squawks of seagulls. Red gets out of the car first, donning his fedora as he looks out to the ocean, breathing deeply.

  
“It’s beautiful,” Liz breathes, walking up to stand by his side. He turns to look at her, expression soft.

“Yes, it is.”

He sets off towards the beach, getting to the sand dunes and taking of his shoes. Liz follows suit, sighing as the cool sand sinks beneath her toes. She wanders down to the water’s edge as Red makes his way further down the shore. It’s cool and Liz’s skin practically sings at the contact, red and hot as it was from the Australian sun. She turns to see Red with his back towards her. She quickly strips off her jeans and shirt, leaving herself in her underwear. She hurries into the water, delighting in it. She can taste the salt on her tongue, feel it tangling through her blonde hair. She lies on her back and just _breathes_ , she feels as if she hasn’t since they left America.

Her eyes drift back to shore and Red is standing by the water’s edge, suit pants rolled up and the waves flowing over his ankles. She wades her way back to him, keeping her body submerged, not that it would matter all that much after Fiji.

“Though this is a slight improvement, sweetheart, do you think we’ll one day be able to go to the beach and you’ll remain fully clothed?” he asks and though he is obviously teasing, she still feels the sting of an insult. She tries to smile at him, but it must have come out more of a wince, judging by the way his brow creases.

He sheds his jacket and offers it to her, but she ignores it, stalking forwards to her pile of abandoned clothes.

“I’m not _nude_ , Red, and I do have my own clothes,” she snaps, bristling as the beads of water roll down her skin, making her itch. He steps up beside her, still offering his jacket.  
“You’re soaked through, Elizabeth, and your clothes are sandy. We have a long drive home, you may as well be comfortable,” he encourages her, and though she’s still slightly irked by his comment, she grabs the beige jacket and shrugs it on. He smiles brightly at her, his eyes imperceptibly gliding down her body and over her bare legs.

_What do you want, Agent Keen? What do you really want?_

She swallows and meets his gaze, heart beating just a little _too_ fast for it to be comfortable. She steps towards him, and he looks down at her, smirking slightly.

The burner phone Mia had given him earlier that morning rings, obnoxiously loud, in his pocket. Liz leans back from him as he slides his hand into his pocket and answers. His eyes are still locked on to hers, and she _knows_ as he looks at her that it’s done. He thanks the contact on the phone, breathing out heavily before saying,

“They got him out. They’re all out and safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think!


	9. Siena

After the phone call they wander back to the car, each consumed in their own thoughts. Neither speaks during the long drive home. He glances over at Liz; she looks as if she is warring between grinning in triumph and drowning in sorrow. She hasn’t looked at him since getting into the car.

The women on the phone, Sarah, said that the Cabal had suffered copious causalities. Reddington’s men had gone in ruthless and ferocious, more so than usual. Their last confrontation was still raw and stark in their minds, so Red had given them the chance for _revenge_.

Harold had been located and rescued, whisked out of the country to join his family in Amsterdam. They were safe.

Red focuses his attention back onto the road; grip unnecessarily tight on the steering wheel as he plans out their next steps. Though Raymond barely ever slept, the few hours he used to manage to glean had become allusive. Memories of the journalist executed on her knees in Auckland plague him, so similar to Luli’s death. He’d need to put contingencies in place to protect the rest of them. If Lizzie were to find out she’d despise him more than she already does.

“What now?” she asks quietly. She is still facing the window; her bare legs are tucked beneath her, the pads of her feet still sandy. Red’s jacket is still draped across her shoulders.

“It’s time to go,” he practically sighs, “I need to speak with an associate in Siena. He’ll be able to protect some assets from the Cabal for me.”

“Do we get to say goodbye this time?”

Red thinks of Mia and the fury she would unleash upon him if he was to leave without bidding her goodbye. It’s enough to make him laugh and Lizzie _finally_ looks at him, the corner of her mouth quirking.

“I know what you mean about Mia being too smart for her own good,” she comments quietly, “I wonder how often she has managed to talk sense into you.”

Red just grins in response not willing to give the statement too much thought, in case the last conversation he and Mia had were to worm its way back into his conscious and keep him restless and anxious for the rest of the night. Judging how Lizzie was behaving on the beach Mia had also played counsellor with her.

Once they arrive back in the house they find the young girl splayed along the couch. She turns around and meets Red’s eyes and smiles sadly. She lifts herself from the couch and gives Liz a hug, murmuring something into her ear, causing Liz to laugh quietly. She then turns her focus to Red, blues eyes dimming slightly. She hated it when he left.

“Come here,” he says, grasping her forearm and pulling her into a hug. She buries her head into his chest and he chuckles. Liz watches on, her expression is sad as she meets Red’s eyes. He releases Mia and she steps back, grinning up at him.

“Catch ya later, Red?”

“Of course,” he replies stepping out of the door, “you’ll get someone to come pick up the car?”

She nods her head and disappears back inside, staring at them through the window and waving as they drive away.

~~~

Lizzie sleeps most of the way to Siena, both in the car and during the flights, only rousing to depart the vehicles and to eat. Red lets her rest, watching over her. His lips twitch into a smile when she mumbles that _Australia is so far away from everything_. The travel is comfortable but long.

Red reluctantly wakes Liz from one of her naps as they finally arrive at the hotel. It is grand and luxurious, the food _impeccable_ ; Red has stayed here many times. The doorman, Giovanni, grins widely as Red steps out the car, rushing forward to grab Liz’s luggage. He is greying at the temples, though he is young, his brown hair; curly. His eyes are a rich brown, like cognac, and he smiles easily.

“Ah! Giovanni! I take it the suite is ready?” Red says jovially, slipping his arm into Liz’s and leading her up the marble staircase, their shoes clicking on the floor.

“Of course, Mr Edgecoombe!” the doorman responds loudly, walking them briskly to the elevator, waving off the receptionist telling the woman that he’d deal with it all later. Red smiles at Liz as her eyes wander around the reception, taking in the grand chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, the paintings that scatter the walls and the other patrons of the hotel, wealthy and well-dressed.

“Am I ever going to feel like I fit in?” she murmurs quietly and Red tightens his grip on her arm, not wanting her to feel self-conscious. He rakes his eyes over the individuals in the room before glancing back at the woman on his arm. He hesitates, but quickly kisses her on the cheek because she is the most beautiful woman in the room, even more so because she is completely unaware of it.

Her brow creases into a frown, but she doesn’t comment on his behaviour. They step into the elevator; Red after Liz. Giovanni chatters and chatters telling Liz all the places Red should take her and what food to order and the wine to accompany them. She smiles widely at him, her posture relaxing as they finally reach the penthouse.

The room is beautiful, as Red remembers. Giovanni escorts Lizzie to the second bedroom and when he returns Red tips him handsomely. Once the excited doorman leaves the suite seems to be silent. Liz emerges from her room, smirking at him.

“You just make friends wherever you go, don’t you?”

He laughs and wanders into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine and pouring them both a glass. She thanks him, her fingers brushing against his as she grasps the handle.

“Since you managed to get some sleep on the way here, Lizzie, I was wondering if you have enough energy to come out tonight, I have a contact I must meet with.”

She readily agrees, much to Red’s surprise. She asks whether she should dress up, where they were going.

“I was going to take you to the Piazza del Campo to see the races but unfortunately time has not been kind to us and there are none running,” Red sighs, greatly disappointed even though Liz’s just shrugs her shoulders, willing to go wherever he suggests. “So, we’ll be going to Giovanni’s restaurant.”

“The doorman? He’s your contact?” she asks, bewildered. Red shrugs nonchalantly because yes, Giovanni is his contact, what more does Lizzie need to know?

She huffs at him, taking a sip of her wine and then stills, her eyes widening slightly.

“He is a part of the mafia, isn’t he?” she breathes and Red is greatly amused by the fact that she doesn’t look afraid but _extremely_ exasperated. She briefly worries her lip between her teeth and takes a larger swig of her wine. “I’ll bring my gun.”

She disappears into her room to get ready, while Red stares out towards the city. He runs his hand over the back of his head, hearing the rasp of his short hair against his skin.

Giovanni would be able to track down the journalists easily, give them protective details and mislead the Cabal until they are fully exposed. Red will do his best to ensure the others survive this trial; Lizzie’s freedom depends on it.

He notices when she steps back into the room, her reflection in the window staring at him. He takes a moment to compose himself as he turns around, because she looks _divine_.  
The soft blue of the dress matches her eyes, complements her hair and _clings_ to her body as if it was specifically made for her. Well, technically it was. He briefly contemplates where she has hidden the gun.

“So, how exactly does a member for the _Italian Mafia_ have a part time job at a hotel like this?”

“It’s an easy way to meet clients, work out when the big names are in town. Hotels give a certain level of anonymity for criminals, but it’s more difficult when the company they bring is so _worth_ remembering.”

She smiles at him shyly, grabbing her wine and taking another large drink.

“Planning for a big night, are we Lizzie?” he teases, as he palms his fedora on. She finishes her wine and flashes him a grin before exiting the suite.

Giovanni greets them by the elevator, wide smile firmly in place. He grasps Lizzie’s hand and brushes his lips along her knuckles. She laughs quietly, eyes flickering over to Red. Giovanni was a well known bachelor within in Siena, his lean figure, chiselled cheek bones and eyes attractive to any woman.

They make their way out to Red’s driver and slip into the car, chatting as they travel through the city. Giovanni’s restaurant, run by his family, is tucked away. One of Red’s little ‘holes in the wall’, somewhere he found in earlier in his life time, when he first went on the run.

He watches Liz as she watches Giovanni, laughing at the younger man’s jokes and tales. He’s acutely aware of when Giovanni’s hand brushes over her own, or her thigh. Her blues eyes are so _bright_ , and it _hurts_.

_As a rule, I consider jealousy to be a base emotion_.

So he joins in and laughs, telling his own stories when asked until they eventually arrive at their destination. Giovanni helps Liz out the car, leading her into the dimly lit building, her heels clicking on the pavement. Candles are on each of the tables, couples and families creating a rumble of chatter and noise as they eat their meals with gusto.

Giovanni sweeps them into a booth, telling them that he’ll get them both drinks. Liz glances over to Red and she’s smiling so much that he can’t help but smile softly in return. She opens her mouth to say something, her eyes focussing on him seriously, but is interrupted by Giovanni’s return. He places a cocktail down in front of Lizzie and a scotch before Red. Liz picks up her drink, the blue liquid clinging to the glass. She has a sip as Giovanni eagerly watches on.

“So?” He asks. His Italian accent is thick and excited, “what do you think?”

Her gaze drifts over to Red, steadily settling on him. Her lips quirk at the corner, and as she answers Red is thrown into the memory of one of their first cases. Oh, how things had changed.

“It tastes likes spring.”

Giovanni, though delighted with this response, does briefly frown as his eyes flicker between the two companions. Red finally breaks the silent exchange between he and Liz, looking up at Giovanni and enquiring what their meals will be, hoping that Davide is making that _delicious_ pasta he had last time he visited.

They sit and wait for their meals, Giovanni greatly interested in everything Liz has to tell him. The mobster’s eyes do flicker over to Red occasionally however, wondering when they will get down to business. Red is waiting for Liz to go to the bathroom, and judging by the way she is drinking, it won’t take too long.

As if on cue, she stands, swaying slightly as her hand lurches out to grasp Red’s shoulder. He offers to escort her to the bathroom but she declines with a polite smile, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol. She wanders off, Red’s eyes tracking her through the restaurant.

“She is beautiful, Mr Reddington,” Giovanni comments, grinning slyly at the man across from him, but receives only a curt nod of the head as an answer. They need to discuss the journalists before Lizzie returns.

He slides an envelope across the table, Giovanni accepting it immediately and sliding it into his jacket pocket. He leans forward slightly in his chair as Red begins to speak.

“Those are the details of a series of journalists I need protected at all costs. Set up a protective detail for them, keep them alive for as long as possible,” Red instructs, eyes straying to the bathroom, seeing Lizzie manoeuvring her way through the crowd. “The envelope also contains an address where your payment will be dropped off tomorrow morning.”

Giovanni nods in agreement and then smiles brightly as Liz slides into the booth across from him. Her thigh presses against Red. She has another drink before her; she has moved on to vodka now.

They eat their meals and drink their drinks, the evening stretching on. Eventually, Red noticing Liz’s increasing intoxicated state suggests that it is time for them to leave. She feebly protests but eventually is escorted out to the car by Giovanni; he kisses her cheek lingering long enough for Red to clear his throat. They shake hands once Lizzie is safely in the car and bid each other farewell.

The entire drive back to the hotel Lizzie giggles and chatters. She talks with the driver about his family, making both the men laugh as she happily gasps at the photo of the driver’s little girl. Her hands stray to Red, lightly brushing over his arms and thighs and sometimes across his collarbone as she talks to him.

When they arrive at the hotel Red manages to talk Liz into taking off her heels so she doesn’t have to walk up the staircase in them. She passes them over to him grudgingly, before waiting for him to open her door and walk her to their room.

She’s complaining that she feels ill by the time they reach the penthouse and are through the door. He takes her straight to her room. He unfastens her dress as efficiently as he can as she complains and groans. He makes sure that his fingertips do not brush her skin.

Red swallows as the dress pools around her feet, kneeling down to untangle her from the material. He quickly glances up her body to see that she is looking down upon him. Her gaze is heated, but blurred, as she slightly bends her knee. From where Red is positioned on the floor, kneeling before her, the inside of her thigh brushes against his cheek. He lets out a shuddering breath as her hand reaches down to rest on his head.

“I might need you to take that off for me, Red.”

At first he doesn’t understand what she’s requesting, focussed as he is on the velvet of her skin pressed against him. He swallows, eyes drawn to the simple black underwear she wears, before he notices the gun strapped to her thigh. He jerkily nods and undoes the strap with shaking fingers, grabbing the gun and placing it on the bed. She thanks him quietly.

He leaves her for a moment, heading out into the kitchen to get her some water and some paracetamol. He stands by the sink, breathing deeply and preparing himself for whatever Lizzie was going to throw at him next. He just _prays_ that she has managed to get some clothes on.

Red steps through the door and the glass of water slides from his hand, shatters onto the ground. Lizzie is passed out on her bed, on her back and choking on her vomit. He rushes forward; his hands hot against her skin as he gently turns her onto her side, trying to coax her awake, his voice more frantic than he wanted it.

She mumbles at him, coughing slightly, but her blue eyes flicker open, cloudy with alcohol. She wipes at her mouth, sitting up and breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, sounding teary. Red gently grabs her by the wrist, swallowing down his initial fear and adrenaline. He leads her to the bathroom, the contents of her stomach sliding down her ribs as she moves. She rubs at her skin in irritation, so he grasps her other wrist to stop her from spreading the mess, ignoring the wetness on his fingers.

He turns the water on in the shower waiting to get the temperature just right before he puts Lizzie under the spray. He sheds his jacket, vest and shoes, rolls up his cuffs and steps in after her. She just stands there watching him as he reaches for a flannel and some soap, gently wiping the vomit from her body.

“It doesn’t taste like spring the second time,” she mumbles in disappointment and Red huffs out a laugh, quickly skimming his hand over the material of her bra, trying to be as detached as possible. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders as she steadies herself.

“Will you stay with me, Red?” she murmurs, “I don’t want to do that again.”

He glances at her, eyes flickering over her flushed face. He nods his head, swallowing when she looks away. They step out of the shower together, Red’s shirt soaked through and stuck to his skin. He gently towels her off and finds her fresh underwear and clothes to get dressed into. He goes into his own room to get into something dry before returning.

  
She is standing and staring at the mess she made on the bed. She sleepily raises her eyes, sighing slightly.

“Suppose it’s your bed,” she states and follows after him. She pulls back the quilt and crawls in first, eyes slipping shut almost immediately. Red smiles and slides in beside her. Sleep doesn’t come easily, each sound Liz makes has his adrenaline spiking, but eventually it does come.

When he wakes in the morning, Liz’s breath is puffing over his face and his hand is draped over her hip, tucked beneath the top she wears. Her skin is warm, but her breath sour. He briefly tightens his grip on her waist possessively before dropping his hand back to his side and waiting for her to wake.

Her blues eyes flicker open and she winces at the assault of light. Red’s chest rumbles with laughter and when she opens her eyes again she is glaring at him.

“Don’t expect any sympathy from me, sweetheart,” he says, “If you plan on drinking yourself into oblivion again, do so in the company of someone else.”

Her cheeks redden and she sits up, sliding out of the bed and wrapping her arms protectively around herself as she frowns down at him.

“You don’t need to admonish me like a child, Reddington,” she snaps and the only reply she receives from him is a raised brow. “I can look after myself.”

He sits up, left cheek twitching in annoyance.

“You could have choked and died, Elizabeth,” he practically snarls and her eyebrows rise slightly at his tone, not used to being the object of his anger. “And if you’re that irresponsible again? What happens if I’m not there to help you?”

“And why wouldn’t you be?” she retorts, matching his anger.

Her response shocks him and he almost recoils from her, because the only possible thing that could drag him from her side was his death. He locks their gazes together.

“You scared me, Lizzie,” he says carefully, “please be more responsible, I’m not Sam, I shouldn’t have to monitor your alcohol intake.”

He notices as her face softens and her posture slackens slightly. She swallows, eyes quickly roaming his face before climbing back on to his bed and grasping his hand. Her eyes are intense as she stares at him.

“I’m sorry, Red; I won’t let it happen again.”

He nods at her, accepting her apology. She offers him a shy smile in return.

“Now,” he begins, a grin spreading over his features, “should I make or order some breakfast?”

Liz groans and shakes her head at him and he laughs because she looks as if she has turned green at the thought. She buries her head into the pillows and he briefly runs his hand over hair. He can see that she is smiling.

“Maybe later then, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love and appreciate all your comments! Thank you so much for your support!


	10. With the Moon and the Stars

They leave Siena and depart for Iceland only a few days later. Liz has finally recovered from her overindulgence, but the embarrassment still lingers. Liz had been drunk, but not _blind_ drunk. She remembers her touch wandering over Red as they sat in the car together; sitting so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him. A shudder runs through her as she remembers his breath on the inside of her thigh, his fingertips grazing her skin as he undid the strapping that held her weapon in place.

He sits across from her now, those same fingertips holding a newspaper before him. He is in one of his white suits, jacket discarded on the couch beside him and tie slightly loosened. Apart from their conversation that first morning, they had not mentioned the incident again, but Liz notices the way Red has distanced himself, even if his gaze settles on her more often than not when he believes she’s not looking.

Liz isn’t sure why she says it; she supposes she’s hoping for a reaction of some sort, a way to determine what thoughts are rolling through his head.

“Do you think we’ll get to see Giovanni again?”

He lifts his gaze from the paper, tilting his head slightly but his expression gives nothing away, impassive. The paper crinkles as he folds it and places it on the table separating them.

“I do not have any intentions of returning to Italy unless necessary, but I am sure once all this nasty business is over Giovanni would be more than happy to see you,” he says nonchalantly, leaning over and taking a sip of his scotch, “I must admit that he probably won’t be able to cater to the criminal class you are now used to, however.”

She laughs lightly and he offers her a soft smile in return. Liz turns back to the worn novel in her hand, a book that Red had just _insisted_ upon, but the pilot interrupts over the speakers, telling them that they will soon be descending. Red stands, slipping his jacket on before opening a compartment above his head and pulling out a large and very soft looking overcoat. He then grabs another and tosses one over to Liz; it’s one of his own.

“Apologises, Lizzie, I didn’t have time to get you one of your own,” he tells her, as she slides the thick material between her fingers. It smells like his cologne and his cigars. “We can invest in a new one for you when we arrive, if you like?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have plenty of these to spare,” she teases before thanking him and sliding it over her jumper and jeans. He merely regards her with a flicker of his eyes and a slight nod of his head.

Liz is extremely thankful for the coat when they exit the jet, the bitter and icy wind biting at her exposed skin. She shoves her hands into her pockets as Red slips on his gloves. Thick clouds hang above them, mountains in the sky, ominous and looming. It looks as if it’s about to snow. Red says as much when they get into their hire car.

“Does this car have keys, Red?” Liz laughs, revelling in the way he grins back at her before turning the ignition and the car rumbles to life. They glide away from the airstrip, Liz’s phone once again hooked up to the stereo system; Red doesn’t seem to mind ever since they took the simcard out, the phone was basically an Ipod now.

Liz has been too many beautiful places in her lifetime, has seen so many incredible and memorable things, mostly courtesy of Red as well, but Iceland is an entirely different experience. The landscape looks as if it is a painting that has come to life; the rolling vibrant green hills coated with white, the abundance of wildlife moving through the planes, the roaring rivers and waterfalls tumbling through the land. Liz is in awe and Red seems to notice because he has a soft smile on his features, looking slightly proud of himself.

The lack of human activity, or evidence of human life, is incredible. There are no other cars on the road, and Liz has only seen a scattering of small cottages _far_ off into the distance.

“We could stay here, Red,” she murmurs, briefly meeting his eyes as they flicker off the road and onto her. “There is no possibility that the Cabal have _any_ contacts over here, what’s the point? There is _no one here_. We could stay and be safe.”

His face flashes with emotion, the slight downturn of his lips, remorse bleeding into his eyes. He fidgets in his seat slightly, grip shifting on the steering wheel.

“We have unfinished business, Lizzie.”

Neither of them speaks again, sliding back into silence until Red turns them on to a dirt driveway. They make their way up the track, Liz letting a gasp escape her as she spots a herd of reindeer. She watches them with interest, the way they calmly regard the car and do not flee like she had expected. They had no reason to fear them.

The car rounds a bend, moving the reindeer out of sight and revealing a wooden cottage, rectangular and painted blue. It has a sweet little front garden, overcrowded and colourful; blue, purple and red flowers all battling for space amongst the green of their leaves. Two square windows, framed by white timber, looking down upon it and Liz can easily imagine herself curled up with a book before them, bathing in the sunlight.

When they come to a stop and Red shuts off the engine Liz practically bounds out the car, rushing towards the house, and ignoring Red shouting out,

“I’ll get your luggage then?”

She charges through the door, figuring and understanding that there would be no need to have it locked. They couldn’t be more isolated if they tried. She steps into an open lounge room, chocolate leather lounges are pushed against the far wall, to the side another window, and before them hangs the TV. A large oak coffee table separates them, upon a rug patterned with deep reds. Closer to where Liz is standing, still in the threshold of the door, a small chest of drawers is shoved against the wall, a large vase overflowing with flowers atop it. There is a coat stand positioned next to it, so Liz sheds Red’s overcoat and hangs it up, feeling the heat of the room. She heads into the kitchen, noticing the hearth in the corner. A large island bench sits in the center, the walls lined with slate counters and oak doors. The fridge is large, stainless steel and stocked full of food after Liz peeks inside. She makes her way through the cupboards, noting all the food in the pantry that she wants dibs on. In the background she can hear Red talking to someone, most likely on the phone. Then she hears the distinct creak of the front door and the crunch of gravel underfoot.

Liz moves over to the window looking out on to the garden, pleased to see that it has a sitting alcove. She can spot Red across the yard, back to the house and standing completely still. His overcoat is creased from where he holds the phone to his ear. He’s leaning heavily on his right leg, Liz’s luggage balanced against his left. He looks as if he will be out there for a while.

Turning away from the window, Liz ambles over to the great bookcase, laden with old and dusty novels and tomes. She glides her fingertips over their spines, breathing deeply at their musty smell. She’d have to finish the book Red had given her before starting any of these. She selects out a choice few anyway, not knowing how long they were going to be here, but hoping it is _at least_ a week.

Sauntering back into the kitchen, absently reading the blurb of a book, Liz fills and flicks the kettle on. She then begins to scour the cupboards and pantry for teabags and mugs, figuring Red might like some tea as well. She leans against the bench, fingers drumming on the countertop as she waits for the kettle to boil. A sigh rushes out of her, long and deep. She feels _settled_ in this house, something she hasn’t felt since the day Reddington strolled into her life. Perhaps it’s the silence, the lack of human life; just her and Red and the beauty of Iceland.

She hears when Red steps into the room, the _thunk_ of her suitcase marking his presence. She spins around, ready to thank him and to exclaim how much he adored the cottage, but his expression stops her dead. His eyes are tight, jaw locked, lips thin. He tilts his head to the side, his pulse jumps slightly in his throat. He takes a step forward, hand twitching slightly as if he was about to reach out to her and then thought better of it.

“Lizzie...” he begins, voice rough, “Donald’s been shot.”

The kettle begins to whistle, signalling that it’s boiled. Liz turns quickly, grasping the handle and splashing the water into the mugs she’d set out, watching the tea bleed into the clear liquid. She can’t _breathe_ as the steam wafts over her face. She can’t _breathe_.

Ressler.

She swallows thickly, flinching as she hears Red step closer, because she can’t lose control _again_. She turns to him slowly, desperately ignoring the bile rising in her throat long enough to choke out,

“Is he dead?”

He shakes his head slowly and Liz feels her knees go weak with relief, but Red’s expression does nothing to quell her rising panic. The wound was life threatening, or else he wouldn’t have told her. She heads over to the fridge, ignoring Red as he quietly murmurs her name. She gets out the milk, pours some into each of their mugs and, with shaky hands, she passes one to Red. He accepts it and immediately places it on the counter closest to him. He opens his mouth, but Liz quickly brushes past him, choking back her fear and guilt, and heads for the front door.

Once outside she gasps for air, the mug slipping from her grasp and smashing on the slate step, porcelain and hot liquid spraying across the ground. She can barely hear it as the blood roars in her head, heart thunders in her chest. She swallows back sobs, images of Ressler racing before her eyes.

She knows what a bullet wound looks like, not a graze, but when metal has torn through flesh, muscle and sinew. She has seen the way the blood, thick, bubbles out of the victim’s mouth, how they _choke_ on it, the panic bleeds into their eyes as much as their blood bleeds into their clothes.

Liz slams her hand against her mouth, biting down on the flesh of her palm to stop herself from screaming, because it’s just _too_ _much_. She can’t do it anymore.

First had been Sam and then so soon after, Meera. Their deaths were never being properly mourned, as Liz hunted down criminals, hoping in some way to honour her late father, too find redemption for her colleague. Reddington’s shooting, almost losing him and in turn entangling herself in the web of an organisation that wants nothing more to see her and those she loves _burned_ , which in turn led to Cooper’s arrest and subsequent torture and now; Ressler.

Her _partner_.

He’d killed for her, and she he. Their partnership had been strained at the beginning, and with good reason, but after the months they had spent together, what they’d been through, the bond between them was powerful, strong. When she _needed_ him, he was there, unfaltering. One of the more steady and solid people she had in the tornado of her life. And now he was wounded, perhaps fatally, because of her. _Murderer_.

She sits there, on the freezing slate, for a long time; long enough for the sun to sink behind the towering mountains in the distance, the land plunging into dark. The stars glint down upon her, thousands and thousands of cold lights, staring and accusing. Liz wipes at her aching eyes, breathing harshly through her mouth, nose blocked.

The door creaks open behind her, and she fleetingly wonders how long he has been waiting for her to come back in, if he’s been brooding in that alcove she had been so excited about. His polished shoes come into view first, before he eases down onto the slate, pulling a soft blanket around her shoulders at the same time. His shoulder is pressed to hers, knees bumping slightly.

“Is he okay?” her voice is tight, choked with emotion and Liz is surprised she managed to talk past it.

“The surgery was successful,” he says quietly, his hand clasping hers, warm and dry. “He’s expected to recover fully. It was a close call, but Donald will survive another day.”

“How do you know? Who’s your contact?”

His grip on her hand tightens, and when she turns to look at him he does not return her gaze. His jaw is tight; he looks as if he is warring with himself. She says his name, sternly. He turns to her sharply.

“Agent Mojtabai.”

Liz lets out a shaky breath; _Aram_. Would anyone from the taskforce remain untouched from the storm and hell that she had caused? Her chest aches, her bones are heavy, mind sluggish and drowning in despair. She tilts her head up, staring at the stars, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“I can’t keep doing this, Red,” she whispers, “I can’t keep endangering the people I love and care about. I’m _poison_.”

He pulls her into his embrace and she trembles under his touch. He rests his forehead against her hair, so his lips are just by her ear and she can hear him breathing, slightly unsteady. He takes his time; she can imagine the way his tongue is rolling along his teeth, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, measuring out his words with precision.

“Agent Malik, Donald, even Agent Mojtabai were or are doing their duty for their country, Lizzie, for what they _believe_ in. And yes, you are playing a major role in current events, but you need to realise that they’re not doing this just for _you_.”

She nods into his chest, breathing deeply. Unsurprisingly he smells like his overcoat; a mixture of sharp aftershave and cigars. She grips the material of his jacket into her fist, heaving herself into his lap. He shifts slightly, moving her so that no part of her touches the cold stone, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. The tremors in her body still almost immediately, the warmth of him seeps through her thin layer of clothes.

“He didn’t get shot because of you, Lizzie. Agent Ressler was not even on duty, it was a mugging and dear Donald couldn’t help himself but chase down the perpetrator. The junkie pulled a gun, let off three shots. One found its mark.”

A sob wracks through her, a mixture of both relief and distress. He presses a kiss to her temple and Liz leans into him further, craving comfort, craving contact.

“It wasn’t your fault, Lizzie.”

She nods her head, hair tickling her face. She feels a mess, both physically and emotionally. Her face must be tearstained, eyes red rimmed and puffy. She is bone tired, but still has the strength to pull away from Red, far enough so that she can look into his eyes.

He stares back at her, gaze soft. His arms slide down her shoulder blades and then back up, thumbs circling as he goes. She brushes her hair out of her face, lips parting as she does so. He smiles down at her; she had expected him to smirk, because she knows that he is aware of what she is about to do next.

She tilts her head, moves forward and brings their lips together. He responds immediately, skimming his hands up her body so they come to rest at the nape of her neck. He is so gentle with her, manoeuvring her head and fitting them together faultlessly. Lizzie feels as if she should not be surprised that he is addictive, intoxicating; he _is_ Raymond Reddington after all, an enigma. The way Red kisses is similar to his voice; deep, soothing and completely in control.

She moves her legs so she is straddling him now, bare feet firmly planted on the slate. He deepens the kiss and she moans slightly as his tongue lazily enters her mouth. He smiles against her as she scrapes her fingers over his scalp.

She tries to scoot closer, to be _closer_ to him. Liz needs to _feel_ something, anything, to forget the gaping hole in her chest, the constant ache. Yet, as she moves closer, brings her hips to his, where they fit so perfectly, he pulls back. She should have known.

“Lizzie...” he breathes and she doesn’t push him any further, his voice so controlled that he sounds as if he is seconds away from breaking, strained with emotion.

The wind is biting at her skin; the iciness of it should have been uncomfortable, but all she can focus on is the way Red cradles her head in his hands, fingers tangling through her hair. His lips are parted, his green eyes are _sad_ as he looks at her, leaning further in. She moves forward to meet him, their foreheads pressing together. His breath ghosts over her face and he gives her one last kiss before standing and leaving her outside in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, let me know what you think. Chapter eleven is in progress, however it is an interlude for bigger and greater things, so it won't be too long! Thank you again!


	11. The Asset

Following the tradition of ignoring the small intimacies they share, neither of them speak about the kiss the next morning. Red is awake first, if he ever actually went to sleep, and has breakfast set out on the table, coffee steaming in a mug for Liz, as she makes her way into the kitchen. She can feel his eyes following her across the room, calculating and assessing. She almost shudders under the intensity.

Liz is aware of the exhaustion, coloured purple, smudged beneath her eyes. Her blonde hair is tangled, knotty, and her feet drag slightly on the slate floor. She had barely slept. Worry and fear for Ressler greatly muted the confusion that arose when she thought of what had occurred between her and Red. She dreamt of the latter when sleep finally claimed her.

Her hands had been pressed to his chest, his skin hot turning cold, as the blood flowed around her fingers. It bubbled out of his mouth, as she remembered so vividly, spewing forth into the air as he coughed and gasped for breath. His eyes were locked on to her, filled with panic, his hands feebly pushing at her, to _get away_. He was there, still trying to protect her as his life seeped out around him, a shroud of _red_. He was there and then he was not. His green eyes, so dark and protective and _knowing_ , had glazed over.

Liz had woken up, tangled in her sheets and body slick with sweat. She choked back sobs and waited for the sunlight to filter into her room, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. A shiver runs through her at the memory.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Red asks quietly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. Perhaps he had heard her screaming in the night. She swallows, turning to look at him, aiming for some kind of level of composure.

“I want to speak to Aram,” she states, voice hard as she meets his questioning gaze. He nods his head, as if conceding that this request is inevitable after he had divulged the information of his asset last night. He wordlessly slides the phone out of his pocket and slides it across the bench to her, turning and leaving the room. The front door creaks open and she hears him step outside. She doesn’t think of the weather, the brittle cold he is now standing in, the wind tearing at his clothes.

She picks up the phone and finds that a number, presumably the one Aram has been using, is already dialled. She shakes her head, a small smile, though fleeting, flickers over her face. Swallowing, apprehension twisting her gut, she presses call. Her feet carry her over to the alcove; she pulls a cushion into her lap as she sits, squeezing the pillow between her fingers.

It only rings a few times; tears well in Liz’s eyes as her dear, sweet friend answers the phone, stumbling over his words as he addresses the Concierge of Crime.

“M-Mr Reddington? How can I help you? Is everything okay?”

“ _Aram_ ,” she gasps out his name, fingers trembling as she holds them to her mouth. The line falls silent, but he hasn’t hung up, she can hear him breathing, and then all at once it’s as if he explodes with worry.

“Liz? Liz is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? Where’s Mr Reddington? Tell me your location; I’ll get Dembe to come find you.”

She huffs out a strangled laugh, tears rolling down her cheeks. She glances out the window, looking out and seeing Red nowhere in sight. The phone is pressed so tightly to her ear that it is beginning to become hot. Her breath fogs against the window, it’s almost freezing outside.

“I’m... I’m fine. _God Aram_ , what are you doing working for Reddington?” she asks, voice a bit too sharp, a harsh protective instinct filling her.

“Keeping you safe, Liz, until you’re exonerated,” is his reply, so steadfastly loyal and confident and Liz starts to cry afresh.

“Is Ress okay?”

He takes longer to reply this time, perhaps wondering how much Reddington has told her and whether he should divulge the information and face Red’s wrath should he say too much. In the end, Aram had always been loyal to Liz.

“I’m not sure how much Mr. Reddington has told you, Liz, but he is expected to make a full recovery. He’ll be taking a few weeks off, which should give you and Mr. Reddington some breathing room, so to speak. Agent Ressler has been dogged in his pursuit of you.”

Liz considers this information, knowing that she ruthlessly betrayed her partner’s faith and trust in her. He had let her go, turned his back on the law, to see her to freedom and then she had gone and betrayed him. She’d flung the taskforce and the American Government into disarray, burying that bullet in Connolly’s chest the way she did.

“Liz, I’m sorry, I have to go, we can’t risk having this call traced. Stay safe and... and stay with Mr. Reddington, he’ll keep you safe. I believe in you.”

The line dies and Liz brings the phone down to her thigh, breathing deeply past the tightness in her chest. She curls her toes in her socks, dropping the phone and watching as it bounces almost falling onto the floor. Her eyes are drawn back to the window, but she can’t see Red anywhere. She stands and heads out the door.

He’s sitting on the front steps as she had been the night before, twirling his fedora absently in his hands. His gaze is far off, contemplative and serious, but when he turns to her, it bleeds into something more like sorrow.

“Done?” His voice like steel on stone.

She nods her head, extending an arm to him, which after slight hesitation, he accepts. She heaves him to his feet, not releasing his arm immediately once he is standing. His jaw works as he stares at her, as if he is about to say something, before he begins to cough. He winces and presses a hand to his chest and Liz almost flinches from the sight; imagining blood swelling between his fingers.

“Your chest,” she says, once he stops coughing and he can’t seem to look at her, eyes darting around their surroundings and he keeps his hand pressed to his chest. “How long has it been hurting you? Why haven’t you said anything?”

He laughs softly, hand finally dropping and Liz feels as if she can breathe again. Walking inside, Liz follows him, waiting for an answer.

“It doesn’t usually hurt, but the cold... exacerbates the injury,” he admits, snatching a piece of toast off the table, the rest of the breakfast he had prepared left untouched, cold.

“So... you brought us to _Iceland_?” Liz remarks, incredulously.

“A slight discomfort of mine will in no way impede keeping you safe, Lizzie,” he states, “it is nothing.”

She narrows her eyes at him, frustrated, but figures that if she can manage to keep him in the kitchen and close to the hearth, it may be better for him. She won’t be able to achieve that if she begins an argument with him.

“Well, make sure that the next destination you plan for us is somewhat warmer then, will you?”

He smiles at her, nodding his head as he does so, but there is a glint in his eye that makes Liz mumble under her breath. She moves forwards, snagging her own piece of toast, cold and slightly soggy. She isn’t all that hungry, but she forces herself to eat so Red didn’t make a comment.

During the first few days on the run, Liz hadn’t been able to bring herself to drink, let alone eat anything, the anxiety and nausea within her was so intense. She can remember the way Red would fret in silence, offering her food and water ever stop they made, watching her uncomfortably close to make sure she consumed _something_. She remembered the way, at one petrol station, he guided a bottle of water to her parched lips, gently tipping the liquid down her throat. She had become unhealthy thin, at one point in time, only really recovering after Fiji.

“So, where are we going then?” She can’t help but ask, trying to find some level of normality between them, trying to forget the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch. She turns her back on him, facing the hearth.

“Paris,” he replies, his tone is soothing, quiet. “Lizzie... we should discuss my actions regarding last night.”

Liz doesn’t turn to him, but shakes her head. She can’t deal with this right now, can’t cope with it. She doesn’t care about the underlying tension they are both steeped in. Her emotions are running rampant.

“Not now, Red.”

His jaw shuts with a click and she almost feels guilty, hearing the way he shifts on his feet, probably uncomfortable. He wasn’t as decisive as she believes him to be, he’d need courage to mention it, and she’d shot him down, ruthlessly. She powers on, regardless.

“You need to stop involving Aram; he isn’t an _asset_ of yours. He works for the FBI and if he is found out, they’ll destroy his career and most likely lock him up.”

His eyes shutter as he gnaws at the inside of his lip. He shakes his head once.

“No.”

“He isn’t one of your _pawns_ , Reddington,” Liz snarls, turning to glare at him, infuriated by his impassive stare. She waits for him to reply, suddenly needing to _fight_ , but he surprises her. Does something he has never done before when they’ve argued. He walks out on her, without a reply, without a witty remark. She’s left alone, like she was the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it was short, apologies for that, but i hope you still enjoyed it! There will be some slight changes in the tags and the rating next few chapters, because as i like to say, shit is about to hit the fan. So stay tuned! Chapter 12 will be up in a few days!


	12. As I Shake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings; there is a bit of violence, rather graphic, and some mentions of rape.

They stay no longer than four days, but Lizzie still manages to finish the book Red had insisted upon, and then another. She had tucked herself away in her alcove, nestled in a thick blanket and always with a cup of tea. Red had considered staying longer, seeing how comfortable Liz was there, but it was not meant to be. They needed to get to Paris, to keep moving and travelling the globe; with Ressler down, their only major enemy was the Cabal.

They had managed to revert back to some level of peace and comfort in their last few days in Iceland, after the incident the first morning. Red would cook, make sure that Lizzie would eat, and she in turn would do the washing up. They’d sit in the lounge room, each with a drink and _always_ dessert, flicking through the movies, each taking turns at what they were going to watch. It had been enjoyable.

The hotel they are staying in is to Red’s tastes; extravagant and lavish. Liz, though not as settled as she had been in Iceland, still manages to make herself comfortable, curled up on the couch and laughing gently at Red as he relays one of his own stories.

“I darted up the steps, slipping slightly on the marble, looking a _complete_ mess. The poor young receptionist, _Kamon_ , petite girl with _exquisite_ hair and a.... _talented_... masseuse, just _stares_ at me, completely mystified, as this little beast of an otter scuttles around my legs, whiskers tickling me to insanity.”

He delights in the way she laughs, her lips parted, so delicate and soft. She is absolutely _enthralling_. The way her eyes glisten with mirth, cheeks slightly flushed. Her laughter dies away as he continues to stare at her. He looks away, staring out the window.

“I should go get ready,” Liz says quietly, standing slowly and heading off to her bedroom. Red’s eyes track her departure in the reflection, heart heavy.

Red roughly grabs the glass of scotch off the table before him, slightly loosing the composure he had been desperately grasping to. He takes a deep drink, hoping to burn the taste of Lizzie away; if it hadn’t worked yet, however, he doubted it ever would.

He sucks a breath through his teeth, remembers her slight moans, body pressed so close to his, hair so soft and tangled in his fingers. A steady stream of self-hatred pulsates through his bloodstream and Red finds that the heat of scotch sliding down his throat is similar to the heat of Lizzie’s fingers as they raked over his scalp.

It would _never_ happen again.

Red finds himself astounded at how fast Liz is able to get ready. She steps out, rousing him from his thoughts; shy as ever, her dress flowing around her ankles. It is stunning, blues and reds and greens all coming together, jewels expertly woven into the fabric from the neckline, to just below her bust. She looks radiant, the blue of her eyes brought out by shining gems and soft material.

He smiles at her, words escaping him, knowing they were not necessary. The way she beams at him makes it clear enough that she knows what he is thinking either way. He steps forwards, links their arms and leads her to the door.

“You’re going to absolutely _adore_ the food, Lizzie.”

A reservation has been made for them at L’Ambroisie in the place des Vosges, much to Red’s excitement. He is practically buzzing when they _finally_ arrive, and he is aware that he is babbling to Lizzie, but it is worth it to see the way she grins at him as if he is a young child; her smile so full of affection.

One of the waiters greets them, showing them to their seats. Red notes that though Lizzie is impressed, she isn’t gaping and staring they way she used to when he gallivanted her to expensive hotels and restaurants; she is becoming accustomed.

She elegantly takes her seat, lets Red order her drink, a sly smirk gracing her features. She holds the menu, eyes scanning over the options until she lets Red order her meal for her as well. He finds himself staring at her, unable to tear his gaze away. Perhaps if he had, he would have noticed the newest patron to arrive, escorted in by a waitress.

Lizzie’s gaze flickers over his should and she seems to stiffen, her eyes widening before falling into slits. She wraps her knuckles around the edge of the table, turning her skin white. And then he hears it, an all too familiar voice; seductive and dangerous. Cold dread slithers down his spine.

“ _Raymond_.”

He turns in his seat slowly, a smile firmly in place, even though he can feel the fury seeping through Lizzie’s body and into the atmosphere. Madeline Pratt smirks back at him, strutting forwards. A fur is draped over her arm and a necklace, chunky, golden and full of diamonds, sits on her collarbone. The dress she wears is emerald green, elegant and so very _Madeline_ , cleavage on display and a very revealing slit up her thigh.

“Ah, Madeline, what a pleasure,” he says, playing their game. He stands to greet her and kisses her on the cheek. She turns her head, briefly capturing his lips with hers. Red is certain that he hears Lizzie make a choked noise of protest. So does Madeline.

“And... you are Nicole, yes?” Madeline asks, sliding her arm around Red’s shoulders. Her tone is patronising. Lizzie jerkily nods her head, eyes not once flickering over to him. Red manages to slide out of Pratt’s grasp, certain that he would have been elated at the way Lizzie seemed to relax if his heart wasn’t hammering against his chest.

“What brings you to this establishment, Maddy?” Red asks, bringing her unnervingly sharp gaze away from Lizzie and onto himself. She leers at him, her teeth seeming almost bared.

“Oh, I’m here with Jaeger! Have you met him before, Raymond? He is _quite_ the businessman,” She exclaims happily, and Red can see the enjoyment she is getting from this; noticing the twitch in his cheek, the way he glances briefly over to Lizzie.

“Yes, we’re acquainted,” he replies evenly, slowly shrugging on the jacket he had shed, hoping that Lizzie would notice. She slowly picks up her clutch and Red smiles to himself in pride.

Jaeger Gerver is a German mobster, just as trigger happy and cunning as Anslo Garrick. He is unpredictable, brutal and ruthless. Man, woman, child, if they ever crossed Jaeger Gerver, they would surely find themselves dead. Unfortunately, Red has done just that, one of the many reasons he does not frequent Berlin often.

“Are you leaving, Raymond?” Madeline questions; feigning innocence, her smile almost a snarl. Red’s stomach jolts as her eyes flicker back over to Lizzie. “Can’t contain yourself any longer? Well don’t let me stop you, perhaps show the young girl a thing or two that I taught you?”

Red ignores her, brushing past and grasping Lizzie’s hand. They walk briskly out of the restaurant, the wind blowing their clothing out behind them. Lizzie is holding his hand so tight that it aches and he considers whether it is from fear, or anger. There are two large black SUV’s parked on the road and the doors are thrust open at their approach. He briefly wonders if he’ll ever get a meal at his favourite restaurants.

They both dart forwards, immersing themselves amongst the crowds, dodging and running, trying to lose the mobsters that are pursuing them. Lizzie still has not let go of his hand, every muscle in her body is tense. Red throws a glance over his shoulder, noticing that their tail has fallen behind.

He tugs Lizzie down an alley. The silk of her dress slithers along the pavement behind him, her heels discarded long ago, replaced with the stealth and softness of her bare feet. Her breath puffs out of her and into the air like smoke, like the fire that raged within her since they met, that had slowly diminished, had been reignited.

_I finally had a chance to see her, Sam. There's a fire inside she got from you._

Red shakes his head, he needs to _focus_.

They would not be able to wait out here much longer, it’s too cold. They’d have to somehow find their way back to the hotel without being discovered.

Red grimaces as he hears a string of harsh German not far off. Lizzie tenses as he presses her up against the wall. He tilts his head to listen. She huffs at him in indignation before leaning against him and waiting. Footsteps jog past them; Red’s grip tightens on her forearms, the unmistakable clanking of weaponry accompanying them.

He sharply glances at Lizzie as she snakes her arm around his waist, before stepping quickly away from her grasp. The warmth of her fingertips is seared into his back, to accompany the burns already there.

“Where’s your gun?” Lizzie asks, alarmed, and suddenly it all makes sense. Red glances up at the sky above them, swallowing. He was being too _reckless_ , he needs to _focus_.

“I didn’t bring one. I don’t have any weapons.”

“What do you _mean_ you didn’t bring any weapons? Are you completely insane?” she hisses at him, her eyes blazing with fury.

“How often do you take your gun to dinner, Lizzie?” he retorts, forcing nonchalance into his tone. She glares at him then, because she knows he has made a mistake, endangering them both. He looks away from her, back to the entrance of the alley.

“Only when I’m a wanted fugitive and the German Mafia have a grudge against my travelling _companion_ ,” she responds, but the way she sweeps her hand down her dress in frustration indicates to Red that she didn’t think to bring anything with her. She had been _relying on him_.

_I believe I will always do whatever I have to do to keep you alive._

He just smirks, attempting to hide the roiling anxiety within him.

“Red,” her voice is soft as she tugs on his sleeve. She has fallen completely still, except for that one delicate movement. A shadow falls across her face, and Red steps closer to her, grips her waist tightly, shielding her with his body, and bows his head in resignation. She breathes deeply, trembling slightly. Red doesn’t hear as the footsteps approach, focussed as he is on Lizzie. Her face, her eyes, lips. The way her breath puffs over his face. She smells like the cocoa moisturiser in her bathroom.

Harsh hands grab at them, Liz letting out a yelp of protest as they are viciously torn apart. Red stumbles slightly, a jarring punch colliding with his jaw, before a gun is stabbed into his ribs. He can hear Lizzie struggling, but when he looks up he can see that they have done her no harm.

The click of high heels is distinct in the silent and dingy alley, a contradiction of wealth and filth combined. Red can smell her rich perfume, so recognisable, before she reaches him. Her fingers are harsh as they grip his chin, nails like claws as they sink into his flesh. He blows a kiss to her.

“Shall we take this inside?” Madeline suggests, eyebrows rising lewdly. She indicates the rusty door, further down the alley and Red internally groans. They’d run straight into the trap.

“Always, Madeline.”

The mobsters roughly drag them inside; the gun is pressed so hard against Red’s ribs he can feel the bruises forming. Lizzie has her head held high but occasionally she stumbles, gritting her teeth as she does so.

The warehouse is cold, freezing, and dimly lit. Dripping water can be heard, echoing off the concrete walls. The hum of electricity buzzes through the air, and the area smells of damp and mould.

Jaeger Gerver stands in the middle of the room, in between two stainless steel chairs. He is as imposing as ever; tall, broad shouldered and muscular, a strong jaw and a thick head of hair. His eyes are dark, so brown they look black. Madeline prances over to him, hips swaying. She throws her arms around the mobster’s neck, kissing him deeply, before releasing him and turning back to Reddington.

“Jaeger promises that you’re all mine, as long as you’re dead by the time I’m finished with you,” Pratt smirks. Gerver turns and exits the room without a word, two lackeys follow him. That leaves two in the room, not including Pratt. “But I plan to drag that on for as long as possible, you know I don’t like it when we finish _too fast_ , don’t you Raymond?”

Red doesn’t answer, will not play her game any longer. He needs to get Lizzie _out_. As they roughly undress him, tearing off his jacket, tie and vest leaving him only in a dress shirt his eyes scan the room for a weakness, for something that could be used as a weapon. He is then dragged forward towards one of the chairs. They snap handcuffs on to his wrists, joining them together behind his back.

“When I heard that you were on the run again, Raymond, I just _knew_ it would be with _her_ ,” Madeline begins conversationally, “with dear _Nicole_ , except it’s not is it? This is _Lizzie_.”  
Raymond has to stop himself from snarling, Lizzie’s name so wrong on Pratt’s tongue. She notices the way he tugs slightly on his restraints and lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

She strolls casually over to the women in question and Lizzie flinches back from her; blue eyes like ice, cold and hard.

“Who is she to you, Raymond?” Her tone goes from conversational to vicious, dangerous. She grabs a handful of Lizzie’s hair, yanking it harshly. Liz yells loudly, the pain in her voice shooting down Red’s core. The slap is like lightning, Lizzie falling silent immediately, the outline of Madeline’s rings imprinted on her cheek.

“Let her go, Maddy. Whatever you want with me, take it. Just _let her go_.”

The older woman looks over to him, laughs mirthlessly as she releases Lizzie. She shakes her head, expression one of mock pity.

“I have heard stories, Raymond, so _many interesting stories_ ,” she reminisces, “of how Anslo couldn’t get you to scream, which I found rather unusual since I never had a problem with reaching such a result.”

She flicks her hands at one of the mobsters and they disappear into the dark, the sound of a door opening and closing in the silence. Red stares at Madeline, heart thundering in his chest.

“So, since I’m not really interested in using my customary methods, I think we should try something new. What do you think, Raymond?”

He refuses to move, to acknowledge her words or Lizzie’s presence in the room. The sound of the thug’s footsteps returning makes his gut twist. He knows that his left cheek is twitching occasionally. His eyes briefly flicker over to the mobster; he is holding an electronic branding iron.

Lizzie begins to struggle in her seat, jerking at her handcuffs as the brute approaches her. He grabs the back of her chair, drags her over to the wall and plugs the iron in. As he stands he rocks back on his heels before swinging his arm and landing a punch that causes Lizzie’s head to snap back. She gasps and coughs and Red’s vision blurs with fury. Madeline grins at him, watching his every expression.

Pratt strides over to Lizzie and Red leans forward, feeling the metal of the cuffs digging into his skin. His throat tightens as she leans forward, grabbing Lizzie by the chin and forcing her head forward, running her thumb over the beads of blood on her lip; split from the punch.

She brings her thumb, smeared with blood, to her own lips, slipping it into her mouth. Red grimaces at the wet popping sound she makes; the thumb sucked clean once it remerges. Striking like the snake that she is, Madeline lashes out, her hand slapping Liz _hard_ across the face, nails raking through skin. Angry red streaks leaking blood now accompany the marks of the rings.

“Oh Red, she tastes _delicious_ , but I’m sure you’re already aware?”

As the cuffs burrow into his skin, Red can feel hot blood sliding down his fingertips. He flicks the droplets onto the floor, steadily watching Lizzie. She is staring at her knees, ignoring the way Madeline looms over her.

The woman in question then turns on her heel, a flicker of frustration dancing over her face. Red wasn’t reacting enough, he wasn’t playing the _game_. She stalks over to him, arm extended as if to a lover. He flinches back, hoping to insult, but she ignores it, sliding her hand under his shirt. Her fingers are warm as they play over the scar tissue on his back. She smirks at him, leaning in close and whispering,

“Shall we give your lover a matching set?”

Every nerve in Red’s body sets alight at her murmured words. She spins from him, the two brutes stepping forward, one grabbing the branding iron and the other tearing Lizzie’s dress, exposing her back and breasts. She starts to shout, desperation leeching into her voice, high and panicked. One of the men runs his hand roughly over his shoulder, his calloused fingers contrasting greatly with her soft skin. He begins to reach lower before Pratt calls him off, though her eyes are only for Red.

“Madeline... Maddy, _please_ , just take me and let her _go_ ,” Red pleads, his voice rough. She answers by laughing, shaking her head. “ _Think_ Maddy, what does this achieve for you? I can’t _fathom_ what you think you will gain from this. You’re a _thief_ , not a torturer.”

“Oh Red, you just don’t understand spurned women do you? You don’t understand how _sweet_ revenge can be.”

The iron is red hot, bright in the dimness of the warehouse and Red can’t breathe, panic is choking him. Lizzie is frantically wrenching at the cuffs, the bottom of the chair screeching along the concrete as it slides forward. He can’t get to her. _He can’t get to her._

“ _No, no no no, please!_ ” Lizzie begs, tears beginning to stream down her face. One of the mobsters advances, leering down at her, iron in hand.

The blood rolls down Red’s hands, hot, wet and fast as he struggles to break free, his muscles burning with tension. And then she begins to _scream_ ; she _screams_ and she _howls_ , but Red can still hear the sizzle of her skin, smell her burning flesh. She’s thrown her body forward, trying desperately to escape, but the blazing metal is pressed against her.

“Lizzie! _Lizzie_!” He knows he’s screaming, aware that Madeline is thrilled with his response, but she needs to know that he’s here, that he’ll get her somewhere safe. He screams until he chokes, keeps yelling her name even after she falls silent. Her head lolls to the side and he can see her eyes; they’re glazed, but he knows that she can see him.

_I’m not going to let anything happen to you._

His wrists are slick with blood, his cheeks wet with tears he did not realise he had shed. He stares at her, sure that this is what dying feels like, seeing the light fading in her eyes.

_I have never lied to you._

Red feels the skin give way on his wrists, feels it peel away from muscle as the blood helps him slide out of his cuffs. He swallows, hard, past the pain, trying to stifle the shaking in his limbs. He needs to stay alert.

“Not the name I would prefer to hear from your lips, Raymond, but I suppose it will have to do.”

Madeline has focussed her attention on to Lizzie, and so has her back to Red. He sizes up the mobsters, noticing their stances, where they carry their weapons. One of them roughly tugs Lizzie’s head up by her hair, eliciting a moan, exposing her throat. He leans forward, roughly running his nose up her neck, breathing deeply.

“Shall we see if the boys can’t get Lizzie to scream for you?”

Fury almost blinds him, but he breathes deeply before lunging forward, crashing into the closest man, arms wrapped around his neck. Red feels it _snap_ with satisfaction, the blood of his wrists smearing against his victim. He has lost the element of surprise; Pratt and the other thug spinning around quickly.

Madeline knows him too well, knows that once unleashed he is unstoppable. So she flees, darts off into the night. The remaining man does not. He charges at Red; miscalculating his naval training, the litheness one gains from a life on deck. He stumbles past Red; not even having enough time to turn around before Red grabs the dead man’s gun and puts a round in his head. He slumps to the floor.

“ _Red_.”

He rushes to her, getting their just in time to cradle her head as she passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! Chapter 13 is underway. I really hope you enjoyed the read, let me know what you think!


	13. Take my Pain

Carrying her is awkward. His wrists, excruciatingly painful, give a fresh wave of agony with every pump of his heart. The bleeding has slowed, but Lizzie’s dressed is soaked crimson. He cradles her against his chest. Having found his jacket, he drapes it around her, covering the blood, but each time the material chafes against her burn she groans in agony. So he tries to balance her in such a way that the jacket gapes at her shoulder, but covers her exposed body.

Red knows that he is disorientated in his panic, knows that he should search the bodies, look for a phone, but every nerve in his body is screaming at him. He needs to get Lizzie _out_ , away from the stench of her burned flesh, though it has soaked into her hair, into her clothing. It’s all he can _smell_.

She curls into him as they stumble out into the alley, and Red wastes no time, running out onto the road, gun sheathed in the material of Lizzie’s dress. Pedestrians eye them strangely, until Red manages to strangle out some French, stifled with adrenaline, asking for a phone. His wrists are hidden beneath Lizzie.

A young boy, around Mia’s age, passes one over without hesitation, eyeing Lizzie curiously. Red ignores his leering eyes for now, knowing that the woman in his arms is completely covered. He dials the number, waiting for Kate to answer, her steady tones to calm him.

“Raymond?” She asks, seemingly not surprised to hear from him at all. They had organised a specific phone to be left in her possession, a number only he knew, so that they could make contact wherever they went.

“I need you to organise security for the Four Seasons Hotel, Paris, specifically room 1007,” he rasps into the phone, glancing around the cars parked on the sidewalk. He notices one of the SUV’s the mobsters had leapt out of. “It’s Elizabeth, Kate, she’s injured.”

“I’ll send Dembe,” And then the line clicks dead. Red passes the phone back to the kid, leaning against one of the walls now. He accepts it back with a shy smile as Red’s eyes rake over him, assessing and calculating.

“Avez-vous l’habitude de la rupture les voitures?” Red asks, causing the boys brows to furrow, his stance to become wary. He slowly nods his head, not making eye contact, but remaining all the same.

“Montre moi,” Red demands, indicating the SUV before shifting Lizzie’s weight in his arms and moving forward. She is awake now, he can feel and hear her breathing his name against his collarbone. He gently squeezes her and she falls silent.

The boy grins at him, vigorously nodding his head, darting over to the vehicle. He is impressively fast, disabling the locks and opening the doors so Red can place Lizzie inside. By the time he has managed to get her in a seatbelt, the car has rumbled to life.

“Merci,” Red says, pulling out his wallet and passing the boy some cash, enough that causes the lad to stumble over his feet in his gratitude before hastily shoving it into his pocket. Red slides into the car and the boy darts off into the night.

“Red?” Liz whispers from the passenger seat as they pull out into the traffic. Red reaches out, placing his palm on her thigh, briefly flicking his eyes over to hers.

“I’m getting you somewhere safe, Lizzie. We’ll be home soon.”

Her eyes slip closed and Red restrains himself from saying her name, from disturbing her, because though she’s injured, painfully so, it’s not life threatening. It’s not fatal, she’s going to _live_. He breathes deeply, navigating his way through the city, ignoring the pain shooting through his wrists, the slow drip of blood onto his trousers.

They soon find themselves in another alley, at the back of the hotel. Red wants to get her in within out being seen, and the old abandoned stairs at the back is the only way to achieve that. His gun is drawn and Lizzie is leaning heavily against him. He slowly opens the door, squealing on its hinges. A shadow looms before them, and Red feels his knees go weak with relief.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I was never far away, Raymond,” Dembe replies, stepping forward and scooping Lizzie off her feet, holding her against his broad chest. His sombre eyes flicker to Red’s chest, concern etching his features as he notices his friend’s laboured breathing, his hand pressed against the healing bullet wound. He then notices Red’s wrists, his jaw locking in fury.

“Come; let us get to your room.”

With Dembe carrying Lizzie the climb is easier and they make it to their room quicker than Red thought possible. Dembe places Lizzie back into Red’s arm before entering their suit, weapon drawn. He steps back out into the hall seconds later, declaring that it is safe to enter.

“Did you bring medical supplies?” questions Red, walking to the bedroom and gently guiding Lizzie onto the bed, gut clenching at the way her breath hitches in pain.

“Yes, Raymond,” Dembe replies, but his tone causes Red to look up at him, “but she needs a hospital. _You_ need a hospital; your wrists will need stitches, brother.”

“You know that isn’t possible. Organise the necessary arrangements. She does not leave this hotel and she does _not_ leave my sight.”

Dembe nods his head once and leaves the room, moments later Red can hear his deep voice rumbling to someone on the phone in the other room; most likely Kate. He glances down at his hands, blood soaked and trembling, and then back to Lizzie.

He delicately removes his jacket from her, averting his eyes as he guides her onto her back. The burn is around three inches thick and five inches long. The skin is charred, weeping; the liquid oozing down Lizzie’s back. The smell is sickening.

“Red?” Lizzie murmurs, reaching blindly for him. He grasps her hand, sits on to the bed and scoots closer to her. Her blues eyes blink up at him; there is still blood smeared across her cheek.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he whispers, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, “I’ve got you, you’re okay. I’m just going to get a flannel, so we can clean you up a bit.”

She nods her head, eyes falling shut once more. He goes to the bathroom, flicking the taps on so they run hot until he manages to find a cloth. Adjusting the temperature, he soaks the material and looks at himself in the mirror. His face is swelling, already slightly purpled, from the well placed punch. He turns away and goes back to Lizzie.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, you need to sit up.”

She does so, immediately, eyes blinking open at his voice. He sits down on the bed once again, slowly raising the flannel to her face, dabbing at the dried blood.

She gasps in panic, and Red flies around, gun drawn and sees nothing. There is no one there. He turns back to Lizzie, feeling her fingers on the top of his hand; still shaking. Her eyes are latched onto his wrists and he barely manages to restrain himself from snatching them away from her grasp, concerned about startling her.

“They’ll be fine,” he says softly, extracting them from her grasp. Tears spill down her cheeks as she looks back up at him. The guilt is too much, the burn on her back and the scar on her wrist, permanent marks of the ways he has failed her. He moves towards her, pulls her delicately into his lap. She buries herself into his chest and he knows that she can feel the way it is rapidly rising and falling, how he is seconds away from breaking.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he manages to croak, his throat so tight he can barely swallow, “I was reckless, unaware, I didn’t think... I never expected...”

She shushes him, tightening her left arm around his stomach, the right hanging uselessly by her side, too painful to move. He doesn’t deserve her forgiveness, doesn’t deserve her faith, but _God_ he would take it, the selfish man that he is. He leans into her touch, mind drifting.

It strikes him like lightning, bright and electric and through the blinding light it is so _clear_. Pratt had the means of seducing Gerver, there was no doubting that, but she didn’t have the contacts. Gerver was a cautious man, was not easily traced. Only someone with German contacts, would be able to track him, get his details.

_German contacts_.

His blood, what remains of it, smeared as it is up his forearms, boils within him. His vision blackens, he feels himself fading out, and the only thing anchoring him to the world is the way Lizzie clings to him.

She feels the way his body stiffens, the tension radiating off of him. She leans back, wincing, face swollen and a dark bruise forming around her eye. Her brow furrows, so he smooths it with his thumb, lightly brushing across the bruise. She opens her mouth, no doubt going to ask him what was wrong, but thankfully Dembe walks through the door.

“Dr. Costanzo is here.”

Red stands as the woman is ushered into the room. She is young, younger than Red had expected. Her hair is black, a wild and wonderful tangle of curls that falls just below her shoulders. Her almond shaped eyes are dark, small smudges of mascara beneath them due to the hour. They flicker over Red, resting on his wrists. She then looks up at him, smiling in a friendly matter.

“Please, deal with Lizzie first,” he insists, stepping to the side so that the doctor can move past, a large black bag in hand. The young woman greets Lizzie gently, introducing herself as Renee. She coaxes her onto her stomach, before pointedly turning to the two men in the room.

Red is greatly amused at the way Dembe fidgets slightly under the doctor’s stern gaze. He nods at him slightly, the bodyguard giving a slight sigh before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Renee’s eyebrows rise, her eyes never straying from Red’s.

“There is no world, universe or dimension in which I leave this room,” he says sternly, eyes flickering over to Lizzie before back to the woman before him, looking so defiant. “So, I suggest you get started.”

She seems to hesitate, composure weakening for a moment, until Lizzie’s soft voice is heard from the bed. Red almost smiles at her forceful tone, but it’s too weak; she’s so tired.

“He can stay.”

Renee flashes him a quick smile, almost apologetic, before turning back to her patient. She begins to pull swabs, salves, bandages and a variety of other medical equipment out of her bag. Red can hear her quietly murmuring to Lizzie, her voice comforting in the silence.

Red turns away moving into the bathroom to clean himself up, to settle himself down. He leaves the door open, ears straining for any sound of a struggle. All he can hear is Dr. Costanzo’s soothing voice, punctuated occasionally by a tired laugh from Lizzie.

He breathes deeply, grasping the basin of the sink so tight that his wrists ache with renewed ferocity. His mind flows over his revelation, wondering how Madeline had made contact with him, what their deal had been, whether it had revolved around him _finally_ getting Lizzie back.

Tom Keen was a dead man.

The water runs pink as he carefully washes the blood away; the water running into his wounds makes him feel sick. He stares at the ruin of his skin, torn and already fading to grey, dying. He’ll just add it to the list of scars.

After putting on a clean shirt, he walks back into the room and Lizzie’s back is bandaged, her eyes are closed and her breathing, even. Renee offers him a smile, before indicating to the bandage.

“That will need to be changed every day, I gave her the instructions, but she’ll need your help.”

Red nods his head, contemplating whether to wake her so that she can slip under the covers, or to get her a blanket from the other room. He looks back to the doctor, she has a smile playing at her lips, and her eyes sparkle. She indicates that he should sit, pulling her bag closer to work on his wounds.

He doesn’t pay much attention, and unlike with Lizzie, she works in silence, methodical and precise. Red lets his mind drift as she sews him up, wincing occasionally at the tug of his skin. Soon enough it is done and the young doctor is packing up her things.

“Thank you,” Red says as he escorts her to the door, she looks back up at him, nodding her head.

“If you need anything more, don’t hesitate to contact me,” she states, “even if you’re not in the country. I get the vibe that you could have me on a plane to anywhere in a matter of seconds if you wanted.”

He laughs slightly, nodding his head in acceptance and opening the door for her. She steps out without another word. The door clicks closed behind her.

Red takes a deep steadying breath, feels the weight of Dembe’s hand as it rests on his shoulder. He absently plays with a loose thread from the bandage on his left wrist, thoughts racing.

“It was Keen,” he growls and Dembe gives a solemn nod, watching him intently, awaiting orders. “I’m going to find Madeline in the morning. Get me details on Jaeger Gerver’s movements.”

His bodyguard moves off into the lounge room, no doubt heading for the laptop and mobile. Red, in turn, heads back to the main bedroom, moves through the door quietly, so as not to frighten Lizzie. He hates to wake her, but with the bandage now covering her burn, it wouldn’t hurt for her to slip under the covers. She’d need the warmth, it would keep her comforted. She also needed to get out of her blood-soaked dress.

“Lizzie,” he whispers quietly, not touching her, “sweetheart, wake up for just a bit, we need to get you out of those clothes.”

She rouses slowly, murmuring and mumbling, eyes flickering open to lock onto his. She tugs feebly at her dress, exhausted.

Red darts over to the medical bag Dembe had brought in, obtaining a pair of scissors. He moves back over to Lizzie, waiting for consent. She nods her head, eyes falling closed as he cuts up the middle of her dress. She covers her breasts with her hands, and rolls to the side as Red slips the material out from underneath her. He procures one of his dress shirts, the material soft and light, and slowly slips it across her shoulders. She tenderly lifts her right arm, sliding it into one of the sleeves. Red does up the buttons, careful not to graze her skin.

The covers are smudged with red, almost pink, but on the inside they are clean and Lizzie clumsily slithers under the sheets. Red watches, not able to tear himself away, to walk out the room. Her screams still ring in his ears, the images of her thrashing in pain burned into his retinas.

“Lizzie.”

Her eyes open at his tone, and for once it’s _she_ who knows what he needs, knows that he is too proud to ask, to admit. Her left hand beckons him to her, and he’s drawn forwards as if there is string wrapped around his heart, attached to her palm. The ache in his chest, the way his heart feels tight and constricted, is all the confirmation he needs. He sheds his shoes, and follows her under the covers, reaching out and tucking his hand behind the small of her back. He draws her towards him, warm and heavy. _Alive_ and _safe_.

In the morning, Red slides out of bed, missing the warmth of Lizzie instantly. She sleeps soundly, her fingers occasionally twitching on the covers. He hopes her dreams are peaceful.

When he steps out of the suite, he is greeted by Dembe in the living room, manila folder in hand. He asks for a pen, writes a note to Lizzie; lets her know that he’ll be back, that he won’t leave her, that if she needs anything at all, get Dembe to contact him. He’ll be back in time to change her bandages.

And then he sets out, gun tucked away, pressing against the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all of your support! It honestly means so much! You're an absolute bunch of champions! Chapter 14 is on its way.


	14. Back Down the Black

Once Dembe had procured Gerver’s location, assaulting the building, finding the mobster and killing him was easy. Red had given the address to a taxi, sat in silence as the vehicle wound its way through the city. His thoughts kept drifting back to Lizzie; her throaty screams, the burn upon her back, on previously unblemished skin.

As the taxi had pulled up to the apartment block, a large white building with balconies and neat gardens out the front, Red’s mouth had set into a firm line of grim anticipation. He lingered on the curb after the taxi drove off, waiting. He shook his head slightly; all he could smell was burned flesh.

Eventually, a lone woman, young and beautiful, made her way to the apartment steps. Her arms were laden with grocery bags. Her keys pressed into her palm, a Union Jack dangling between her fingertips. Red stepped forward, sunglasses and fedora in place, smiling charmingly.

“May I help you? I’m just on my way up,” he asked and she quickly turned to him, startled. Her expression seemed to melt before him, her eyes flickering up and down his body in an appraising matter.

“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” she replied, British accent, thick, and smile, lovely. He gently took some of the grocery bags and waited patiently for her to buzz them in. The door clicked open and Red indicated that the woman should go first.

She idly questioned him about when he moved in, if he worked nearby, the size of his apartment, gauging whether he lived alone. He answered her politely, gracing her with small smiles and lingering looks before walking her to her apartment door. He bid her farewell, only tilting his head when she said that she would see him around.

The elevator ride up to Jaeger’s room was in a contemplative silence, gun drawn, silenced and ready. The mobster had an entire floor to himself, so coming across any innocents was unlikely. He stepped out when the lift came to a stop, steadily watching the guards leaning against their boss’s door, postures lax. They didn’t even notice him before their lifeless bodies sunk to the ground, blood pooling around them. Red stepped over them without thought.

He cracked the door open, surprised that it was unlocked. The TV was on, blasting obnoxiously loud music. Scantily clad women danced on the screen. Red walked over to the coffee table, grabbing the remote and turning the TV mute.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jaeger snarled, hidden in what Red assumed was the kitchen. He moved quietly to the threshold, eyeing the German mobster with distaste. The man had not looked up from making his drink, hunched over the ice as he slid it off the bench and in to his palms, before tipping them into the glass. Red stepped further in, tucking his gun away and snatching a blade from the knife block.

“No wonder your employees were so incompetent, if _that_ is how you address them,” Red remarked, twirling the blade in his hands. Jaeger’s head snapped up so fast that the possibility of him breaking his neck flickered across Red’s mind, and how _disappointing_ that would have been.

The mobster’s eyes flickered with fear, grasping for the bottle next to him, smashing it against the counter. Red lunged forward, burying the knife to the hilt in Gerver’s chest. Blood pooled around his hands, soaking into the bandages of his wrists.

A choked cough resulted in bloody spittle to spray over Red’s face. He twisted the knife, teeth clenched so tightly that it felt as if they would shatter. Jaeger slumped against Red, dying.

“You should have _never_ gone after _Elizabeth Keen_.”

He yanked the blade out of the body, watched as the mobster sunk to the floor. He turned to the sink, washed the crimson off knife and skin.

And that is how Madeline Pratt finds him, sitting on the couch watching Nigella Lawson. Jaeger’s body dragged to the living room, a smeared river of blood in its wake. Her cold eyes merely flicker over his body, showing no sorrow, no grief.

“Ah, Madeline,” remarks Red, standing from the couch and simultaneously turning the TV off, “how kind of you to finally arrive.”

She stands, posture rod-straight as he prowls towards her, gun idly tapping at his side. He smiles at her and receives nothing in return. She looks conceding; she had known he would come for her.

“I take it you know about Keen?”

He nods his head, indicating that she should sit. She gingerly does so, on the edge of the couch, hands clasped before her. He thought that she would be more difficult than this.

“You want details about where he is.”

Another nod and she finally meets his eyes, unshed tears glistening in them. Raymond feels a pang of regret slice through him; the Concierge of Crime tightens his grip on the gun.

“Why wasn’t I _enough_ for you, Raymond?” She asks, voice breaking and tears spilling down her cheeks. He can see that she hates herself for it, that in her last moments she is not the strong and independent woman she had always been. She had _loved_ him and he’d broken her. “What makes Elizabeth so special? Why is she better than _me_?”

He watches her, contemplating her words; rolling his tongue along his teeth, chewing on the inside of his lip.

“Lizzie is _home_ , Madeline,” Red begins, steadily holding her gaze, “she’s summer and then she is winter; warm and beautiful and then thunderous and raging. She is falling asleep and _knowing_ that she is the _light_ in the darkness that envelops you. She is waking up and knowing that there is _something_ worth living for, something so _pure_ that perhaps, _maybe_ , she can be a salvation. Lizzie keeps my heart beating, stops the _rot_ from riddling my body. She is everything, Madeline.”

_You let your emotions get the best of you._

Madeline wipes at her eyes, breathing hard. She slowly nods her head as if in understanding and only speaks to say,

“He’s staying at the Four Seasons.”

“Did he know that was where Lizzie and I were staying?” Red asks sharply, panic piercing through him. The phone in his pocket feels as if it is burning into him, but she is safe with Dembe; she would always be safe with Dembe.

She looks startled at this question, quickly shaking her head. Her mouth is parted slightly, she’s breathing heavily, nervously.

“What name is he using?”

“James Morgan.”

The shot is clean; her eyes losing their light immediately. Her body sags slightly as Red fishes the phone out of his pocket, dialling Mr Kaplan’s number. He gives her the address, knowing that she’d deal with the clean up, lets her know that there will be one more body to deal with after. He walks out the door and does not look back.

Hailing a taxi is easy, but the ride is _torturously_ long. Red sits impatiently in the back, fingers drumming on his leg as he waits. When they finally pull up, he strides into the reception. The man at the counter greets him kindly, inquiring as to what he is after.

“Hello! I’m a guest at the hotel and I was just wondering if you could help me with something? See, I’m looking to find a Mr. Morgan, first name, James? He is an old acquaintance of mine, and I would just _love_ to surprise him.”

The receptionist smiles; tapping into his computer and pulling up Keen’s details, eyes scanning the screen. The metal of Red’s gun is cold against his back.

“He is in suite 802, sir.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” Red replies, handing the man over a generous tip before turning on his heel and heading to the elevator. It opens with a ding and an Italian family stampede out of it, prams and screaming children and _exhausted_ looking parents. Red smiles to them.

The elevator is silent as he steps in and he jabs at the level eight button; adrenaline beginning to bubble throughout his veins. He breathes deeply.

The floor is empty when he steps out; the corridor long and silent, but a cleaner’s cart is parked by a door to a suite. A key tantalisingly hangs from one of the hooks. Red snags it on his way past, contemplating how he will make Keen’s death as _painful_ as possible. He wishes he’d brought a branding iron.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just holds the key over the sensor and waits for the telltale click of the lock. The doorknob is cool under his burning fingertips. He has his gun drawn as he steps in. The room _stinks_ of booze and stale food.

Keen is sitting up on his bed, a movie running on the TV. He doesn’t look all that surprised as Red steps into the room, gun trained between his eyes. His lips twist into a dark smile as he slowly raises his hands above his head. Pizza boxes and empty beer bottles litter the room.

“I see Maddy couldn’t deliver what she promised,” Keen says conversationally as Red shuts the door behind him. His eyes flash over the room, spotting the glock on the bar. He walks over and grabs it, tucking it into his waistband.

“And what, exactly, did she promise, Tom?” Red questions, shifting his weight slightly, steadies his aim. Tom stops moving, but drops his hands to his sides. He looks so _arrogant_ , smirk playing around his lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t work out that Elizabeth is occupying this building. You must be off your game.”

Shock flashes across Tom’s face, his hands clenching together, eyes widening. He hadn’t known and Red derives great enjoyment and comfort from that fact. He clears his throat, wondering whether he should bury the bullet where Zamani buried his blade.

“What was your _plan_ , Tom? Did you think that she’d run away with you? Leave everything behind her? It’s as if all those _years_ you spent _worming_ your way into her life, and you don’t know a _single_ thing about her.”

He flashes a brilliant smile at Red and it takes all of his composure not to furrow his brow in confusion. He gnaws on the inside of his lip, uncertainty slithering through his core.

“You don’t know, do you?” He states, almost in wonder, “I figured that you had her followed, that your people would have reported to you _immediately_. That she’d come back to me so _willingly_.”

He laughs then and Red freezes when patronizing pity bleeds into Keen’s eyes. Tom shakes his head, before meeting Red’s eyes once more. His grip is slick on his weapon.

“I slept with her, that night, before she shot Connolly. She writhed and moaned beneath me, the _real_ me. She knows exactly who I am, Reddington, and she still loves me.”

Red smothers the emotion erupting within him; the fury, the disappointment, the _unforgiving_ jealousy. He focuses on the man in front of him, left cheek twitching, his trigger finger positively itching.

“Well, I hope you remember how smooth and perfect the skin on her back was, Tom,” Red comments idly, “Madeline had it branded off of her. I killed her for it, if that is any consolation.”

Tom seems to blanch, his posture sagging slightly before he heavily sits on the bed. He roughly rubs his hands over his face, over the stubble of his cheeks.

“I never meant for her to get hurt,” he whispers, looking back at Reddington, who recognises that the admission was true. Tom’s voice then takes a turn; he uses a stronger tone, almost as if he is trying to assert authority. “If you kill me, Reddington, she’ll never forgive you.”

“If I don’t kill you, Tom, I’ll never forgive myself.”

The imposter’s words cause a _second_ of hesitation in which Tom launches across the bed, slamming into Red, attempting to wrestle the weapon away. They smash into the wall, the mirror that hangs there, shattering and the shards slicing through Red’s suit, into his back.

Keen snatches up a piece of glass, goes to plunge it into Red’s neck, but Red manages to duck away from the attack, push himself away from the wall and use his momentum to take Keen to the floor.

Red feels the _snick_ of the glass as it grazes his face, the sharp sting above his eyebrow. Blood rolls down his face, into his eye, blurring his vision. Keen struggles beneath him, but Red still has a grip on his gun, though slick with sweat and now, blood; his wrists feel as if they have torn open once more.

Pressing the trigger, sinking the bullet into Tom Keen’s forehead, watching as his body stops struggling, was easy, satisfying almost. The blood is sticky and splattered across Red’s face. He can hear Lizzie’s screams from the warehouse.

_You were the one who hurts Liz the most_.

Red stands, turns away. He dials Mr. Kaplan, gives her the suite number and then exits the room, knowing that her contacts, or even herself if she is around, would clean up the mess. He makes sure to leave a _Do not Disturb_ sign on the doorknob. He heads straight for his own suite.

Dembe opens the door, eyeing the way Red loosely holds the weapon, exposed, in his hand. He steps aside, assessing Red’s facial expression, smiling sadly.

“I hope no one saw you on your way up.”

Red shakes his head and steps into the room. Lizzie is curled up on the couch and she turns slowly towards him, as if she knows the state that she will find him in; covered in blood once more, beaten and bruised and _dangerous_. His clothing is rumpled and torn.

He breathes deeply, drops the gun down on the kitchen bench.

“I killed Tom Keen.”

_You’re a monster._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! 15 is on the way, so you won't have to wait too long if this is too much of a cliffhanger! Thank you again!


	15. Imperfections are Quaint

She feels as if her ribs are going to split open, reveal her beating heart as it tears through muscles and tendons and falls on the floor before her with a resounding thud.

_I killed Tom Keen_.

Not just Tom Keen, judging by the haunted look in his eyes, the faded water-stained pink that runs up his sleeves. He’d most likely killed Pratt as well. She tries to still her shaking hands as he stares at something beyond her. She stands slowly and approaches.

“He was working with Pratt?” Her voice cracks with emotion. His left cheek twitches as he nods. Blood leaks from the bandages on his wrists, sluggishly slides down his face, stains the white of his dress shirt. He is covered in small cuts, littering his arms. She takes another step towards him.

“We need to get you stitched up.”

She reaches out slowly, grasps his hand, but he flinches back from her. She stills immediately, watching him steadily as he stands before her. He isn’t looking at her, as if he physically _can’t_ bring himself to do so. She reaches for his hand once more and this time he lets her take it. They walk to the bathroom, Liz snagging the medical bag from the kitchen on their way.

He still hasn’t said a word as she sits him down on the edge of the bath. His face is like stone, unmoving. She slowly unwinds the bandage on his right wrist, trying to smother her wince as the torn skin is revealed.

She looks up at him, her heart stuttering slightly when she meets his gaze. His eyes are cold, dull. Liz glances away, grabbing the necessary medical supplies from the bag to begin stitching up his reopened wounds.

“Was it quick?” She finally manages, looking up at him once more. She’s graced with another nod and Liz is struck with just how _broken_ he appears.

_Nobody can murder someone in cold blood and come out okay on the other end_.

She blinks back tears; thoughts of Tom floating to the surface of her thoughts, how he had brutally murdered Eugene Ames. How he had choked the life out of him. She had seen Reddington in action, merciless in his pursuits, brutal in his protection of her. Tom claimed that he’d done what he did to protect her. However, Liz can’t help but think that if she’d begged Reddington the way she had Tom, he would have thought of something else, would have stopped. That perhaps he wasn’t as cold-hearted and vicious as her husband.

“Lizzie,” he murmurs, reaching down and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. She wanted to _hate_ him, knew she should be furious for his deadly actions, but she couldn’t bring herself to resent him. Tom had been the one to plan her abduction. He was the reason her back was horrifically scarred, the reason for their copious injuries. She knows that as soon as Red had found out it had been Tom he would have pursued her husband until one of them ended up dead.

She was glad it hadn’t been Red.

Her hands glide from his wrists, her handiwork not as neat as Renee’s but suitable, and up his thighs to his torso. She feels his muscles tense beneath her fingertips, the catch in his breath as her fingers begin to unbutton his shirt. He watches her steadily and as she moves higher, she slides onto his lap. His eyes are dark as his hands rest on her hips, gaze locked with hers. She leans forward, brushes her lips against his forehead.

His skin is hot against her hands as they slide up his exposed chest and begin to gently push his shirt away from his shoulders. He freeze, snatches at her wrists and firmly puts them at her sides.

“What’re you doing?” she asks. Her voice is a bit _too_ sharp in the silence of the bathroom. “You have cuts all over your back, they need to be disinfected.”

He stands abruptly, fingers nimbly re-buttoning his shirt. She stares at him, mouth slightly agape at his jagged movements. His mouth is in a firm line.

“I can handle it,” he snaps, before breezing past her and out the door. She grabs at his shoulder. He whirls around, once again firmly grasping her wrist. His expression is furious. “Do not touch me right now, Elizabeth.”

She breathes out deeply, confused and livid with his actions. Slamming the bathroom door closed, she storms into her room. Her nails are biting into her palm as she tries to calm down, listening for his steady footfalls, his soothing voice, perhaps an apology. None come.

She stands in the middle of her room, heart thundering in her chest. Her bed beckons to her, and though rage flows through her veins, Liz soon enough finds herself curled up on top of the covers, seething in fury until she eventually drifts off to a restless sleep.

A steady knock on her bedroom door wakes her from her slumber, but she is tempted to keep sleeping, to ignore his voice softly calling her name. Before she responds, the door cracks open and there he stands. He has changed into a clean suit, a deep navy. His green eyes still carry that slightly haunted look, accentuated by the purple smears beneath them.

“We need to change the dressings on your back,” he states gruffly, brandishing the well used medical bag. She almost stubbornly refuses, but Renee had been explicit that they needed to be changed _every day_. Liz wouldn’t be able to do it herself.

She nods to him and he steps further into the room, movements stiff, as if he is sore, or perhaps wary. Liz slips her shirt off her head, wishing to unsettle him further, but her actions garner no response. She slips her hair around her left shoulder, exposing the bandage on her right.

He settles on the bed next to her, bag slotted between them. He works in silence, the bandage tugging at her as he removes it. His fingers only brush her skin when necessary, but she can still feel his breath. Neither of them speak, Liz still bristling at his earlier behaviour.

Once he is finished, he stands, grabs the bag and goes to leave her room. Her voice stops him, and he turns to her slowly.

“What the _Hell_ , is your problem?” She snaps, slipping her shirt back over her head. He tilts his head at her, regarding her in silence. He drops the bag onto the floor with a _thunk_.

  
“I don’t understand,” he replies, slowly, and at first Liz thinks that he is deflecting her question, trying to distract her, but his expression halts her.

It’s dark, angered, yet he also looks perplexed, brows knitted together. She waits for him to elaborate, and when he does the disappointment in his voice has her tightening her hands into fists, her stomach clenching with panic, shame.

“Why did you sleep with Tom?”

“I shouldn’t have to justify that to you,” she responds firmly, straightening her posture and meeting his eyes. His expression changes to impassive; his hands are linked before him. His left cheek twitches and Liz is glad for that telltale sign, or else he would be completely unreadable.

“Of course not, Elizabeth, but are you able to justify it to yourself?” he states, his tone has an air of forced nonchalance about it. “Sleeping with a man that _lied_ to you for _years_ , a man hired to keep track of you, sell information _about_ you.”

“Yes,” she replies darkly, her memories of that night flicking through her mind. She swallows and tilts her chin upwards. Her reasons at the time had been justified; Liz had not regretted her actions up until she had found out that Tom had been involved with Pratt. She briefly wonders if they had slept together. “Let’s not forget who hired him in the first place.”

He ignores her.

“I expected better of you.”

“I consider jealousy to be a base emotion,” she parrots to him, throat catching on the last word, betraying her anger. He smirks at her, crosses his arms.

“Oh, Lizzie, I have no _need_ to be jealous of Tom. If I wanted a tumble in the sheets with a woman, it could be arranged. Madeline Pratt wasn’t my only means of achieving such a thing,” he retorts brusquely and she almost flinches at his words, hurt.

She swallows, turns away from him, hoping he’d eventually leave, miss the way his words affected her. He doesn’t. She can hear his slow, steady breaths.

“I don’t understand,” he states once more, and she contemplates that perhaps he is the one that needs closure. She breathes deeply, still not facing him.

“I was lonely, Reddington. I couldn’t trust you,” she begins, shifting uncomfortably, “I couldn’t trust you and my life had been thrown into disarray and Tom was _there_ and it was easy. I just wanted to _feel_ , Red, because ever since you waltzed into my life I’ve been so _empty_. I’ve felt so _powerless_.”

_When you love someone you have no control. That’s what love is, being powerless_.

She finally turns around to face him and his features express regret; his eyes are downcast, filled with remorse, and his lips are slightly parted. He doesn’t move towards her, doesn’t respond to her admission. He looks as if he is frozen.

“Red,” she says quietly, stepping towards him, but he takes a step back, shaking his head. She stops.

“You’re self-destructive, Elizabeth,” Red murmurs, slowly walking towards the door, “you don’t know what’s good for yourself.”

The door clicks closed and Liz returns to her bed, burying herself in the quilt and pillows, doing everything she can to smother the frustrated screaming and sobs that escape her. She falls asleep once more, face pressed into her pillow and burn throbbing uncomfortably.

_His grip is like iron, unyielding as his fingers dig into her arms. Liz struggles against him, calling his name, begging him to stop, but Tom Keen just leers at her, teeth bared and uncomfortably close to her face. He laughs._

_She’s naked, struggling, tied to a chair. Reddington is standing across from her, blood pooling around him, spilling from the bullet wound in his chest, the stab wound in his neck. His suit turns crimson, but he just stands there, softly smiling at her. She had destroyed him._

_Tom prowls forward, movements animalistic and feral as he approaches her. He’s a contradiction; he has the features of her loving husband, soft eyes and a kind smile, but his movements are jagged, violent. Once he reaches her, he lovingly brushes his fingers across her shoulders and it_ burns, _and Liz screams. She screams and screams until her voice is hoarse; the smoke produced by her skin chokes her. She struggles and wrenches back from his touch, but she can’t get away, his fingers following her movements. Tears track down her face as ash begins to fall from the ceiling, leaving marks on her skin._

_“Lizzie.”_

When she wakes, she wakes up screaming his name, surrounded by his scent, wrapped in his embrace. His hand cards through her hair, bandage catching slightly in her blonde locks. He murmurs to her, saying her name repeatedly, his own voice gruff and riddled with sleep. She curls tighter into his chest, sliding her hands up his body to settle around his neck, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Lizzie,” he whispers, “You’re going to be okay.”

She nods her head against him, believing him, because Tom’s dead. Tom hurt her and now he’s dead, because Red went after him, because Red would do everything he could to keep her safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed it! 16 should be up in a few and it has me very excited!


	16. Sin Eater

They sit across from each other in an empty cafe, plates of food piled before them. Dembe stands by the door, expression grim as he faces the street. The cafe owner lingers behind the counter with a rag, polishing the slate countertop, though it is now sparkling clean. Soft music filters through the silent room, pairing with the ruckus of the morning traffic outside.

Reddington had insisted that they go out to eat for breakfast, but only to this specific cafe where he knew he could convince the owner, an old friend, to open later. He had wanted them to be completely secluded from the world. Liz suspected he just wanted to brood without anyone noticing.

So they sit in silence, both of them barely picking at their food, delicious as it is. It is tense between them. After Liz had calmed from her nightmare Red had tucked her back into bed and left the room. He had ignored her as she called his name just before the door clicked shut. It hurt more than she thought it would.

He slowly sips at his coffee, his eyes flickering over the contents of a manila folder Dembe had given him back in their suite. She doesn’t know what it is; he’s tilted it in such a way that she can’t read it.

“Agent Mojtabai made contact earlier this morning,” he says quietly, voice rough from disuse. “Agent Ressler has been released from hospital and shall be returning to the Task Force in no less than a week. So, knowing Donald, he will be back at work by tomorrow.”

She feels the corners of her lips quirk up into a smile, relief blooming in her chest. Red’s eyes are soft as they look at her, and Liz quietly thanks him for this information. He simply nods his head and returns to his paper, seemingly in no rush to catch the private jet awaiting them.

Dembe had informed her that they would be travelling to New York. He didn’t give her a specific reason and she did not ask. If Red didn’t want her to know, then the last person that would tell her would be Dembe.

Liz’s mind drifts to Tom; where his body now was, how Red had killed him. She felt guilty; she felt no remorse, no grief for a man that she had once loved wholeheartedly. She could, however, feel the bandage of her burn catching on her clothing, the steady throbbing ache with each beat of her heart.

The rustle of paper and Red clearing his throat brings her attention back to the man across from her. He is watching her steadily, brows slightly creased. She smiles at him softly.

“Shall we go?”

Liz nods her head in agreement and they stand simultaneously. Dembe opens the door for them, after Red thanks the owner and gives him a handsome tip.

The drive to the airstrip is in silence. Liz notices the way that Dembe’s eyes keep darting up to the review mirror, checking on Red. Her heart warms at the sight and her lips twist into a smile when Red gives an exasperated huff, turning to look out the window. He had noticed his bodyguard’s attention.

When they board the plane Red disappears into the cockpit to converse quietly with the pilot. By the time he emerges Liz has served herself a drink and has a book in hand. She looks up at him as he slowly approaches, fedora in hand.

“I’ve asked Dembe to arrange a reservation at the Vanguard for us,” he says quietly, moving to the bar and pouring a generous scotch. The ice clinks against the glass as he sits opposite her.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun. Are we going to meet a contact?” She replies, slotting her finger into her book so she doesn’t lose her page. He smiles softly and she can see that his thoughts are drifting.

“No, for the jazz,” is his soft response. A serene look passes over his features and Liz feels a thrill of excitement run through her, that perhaps she may seem him find peace, if only for a few hours.

The flight passes by reasonably quickly. Liz reads and naps. Red sits in contemplative silence and drinks. When they entered the plane Dembe had disappeared into the cockpit with Red and only emerges once the aircraft has landed.

The three of them step out to see two cars idling on the tarmac; a black sedan and a cab. The driver of the sedan gets out the car, waves at them and then gets in the cab. The yellow taxi rolls away seconds later. Red carries Liz’s luggage to the car. Dembe is driving once more.

It feels surreal as they travel through New York, being back in America, her homeland. She can’t help the small smile that creeps over her face, seeing such familiar sights. However, as she stares out the window, eyes flickering over the towering skyscrapers and abundance of yellow cabs, dread coils deep in her belly, anxiety. They are so close to the Taskforce, can practically feel their looming presence over the city, the country. She breathes deeply, eyes sliding over to her companion. He had travelled into, around and out of America with apparent ease as a wanted criminal.

She had complete and _utter_ faith in him.

When the car glides up to the entrance of The Empire, Red is almost back to his jovial self. As they are led to their rooms he speaks adamantly with the bell boy, gesturing wildly with his hands, telling stories, making the young boy laugh.

Yet when they are alone once more, Dembe disappearing further into the suite, he lapses back into silence. Liz’s mood drops considerably, her heart aching slightly at the stagnancy they have found themselves in.

“What time should I be ready by?” Liz asks, running a hand through her hair. It’s oily. She’ll need to shower.

“I’d like to leave in an hour or so,” is Red’s quiet reply. He is in the midst of making himself another drink. Liz leaves him to it, moving to her room to get ready.

She isn’t surprised to find another beautiful dress awaiting her on her bed. It looks nothing like the one she wore in Paris. It’s beautiful none the less. The deep burgundy material is fitted and covers her shoulder blades, thick enough that the bandage on her back isn’t visible. She wonders how he is able to work so quickly.

As the shower runs Liz wraps a robe around herself and quickly strides into the living room in search of Red. He’s hunched over on the couch, drink cradled in his hands as he stares into nothingness. She hesitates, not wishing to disturb him, but he hears her approach and stands when he notices her.

“I’m just going to have a shower, and I need help to change my dressing afterwards,” she tells him, gut twisting as his eyes sweep over her robe clad body. He nods mutely and turns away, so she returns to her steaming shower.

Liz tries to avoid letting the water sluice over her wound. She twists her body in such a way that she can wash her hair, but her knees and torso twinge at the awkward position. It’s a reasonably quick shower; the length of the dress giving Liz the _blessed_ relief of knowing that she does not need to shave.

She dries herself quickly, hears the door of her bedroom open and close, announcing Red’s presence. Her underwear sticks to her skin as she puts them on, still not completely dried. The towel is soft as she rubs at her still damp arms, knowing that the silk robe would feel constricting if she was still wet when she put it on.

When she steps out into her room, in a cloud of steam, Red looks up at her from his seat on her bed. Her heart stutters at the sight; the pure emotion in his eyes. The self-hatred, the sadness; they bleed green. Liz watches as Reddington’s, the Concierge of Crime’s, cold indifference slides into place.

He beckons her over, standing as she slides her robe to just below her shoulders. She can hear the _snick_ of her bra as he undoes the straps and brushes them to the side. It should be such an intimate act, yet Red is methodical in his work, silent and stony and completely unmoved.

Liz turns to him once he steps away, finished and regarding his work with a serious eye. She smiles feebly at him, the tension surrounding them becoming _too_ much and Liz briefly considers that perhaps they’re broken now. That after everything that has happened, the death of the man that Red _despised_ so much, that Liz had once loved, was the final straw, had driven them apart. It’s almost too much; Liz bunches the material of her robe in her fists, bites down on her tongue. She traps words behind her teeth; confessions and explanations. His eyes stare at her, but he looks unresponsive, lost in his thoughts.

And then he slowly reaches up, brushes his thumb lightly across her cheek as he tucks a stray lock of wet hair behind her ear. His eyes melt into something more affection, tender. Perhaps, just _maybe_ , they would be okay.

“Thank you,” Lizzie whispers, sliding her robe back onto her shoulders.

“I’ll leave you to get ready,” he responds, his voice still so unemotional, deadened slightly. He scoops up the medical bag and leaves the room. Liz sighs quietly in his absence.

  
It doesn’t take her long to get ready. She does her makeup as she waits for her hair to dry, just applying some foundation, blush, mascara and lipstick. Her hair, she leaves down, admiring the way the blonde reflects in the light, how the curls bounce around her shoulders and frame her face. Finally she slides her dress on, matches it with some strappy black heels.

After staring at her appearance in the mirror she hesitates to leave her room. She isn’t sure if she can do this, step out into that room and face Red’s current mood; pensive and silent. Her teeth grit together as she turns the door knob, her own emotions drowning her. Liz feels helpless, hopeless, unable to provide the comfort she is sure Red so desperately needs.

His reaction to seeing her isn’t like before, he doesn’t compliment her, and his eyes don’t light up and glint. He does, however, offer her a small smile and an arm. At this point in time, after his detachment and silence all day, she’ll take whatever morsel he is willing to give.

They walk to the car, Dembe driving of course, and begin their journey to the Vanguard. Red’s fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh and Liz watches him with mild amusement. He doesn’t notice her attention, thoughts obviously elsewhere, perhaps the moment the light faded from Tom’s eyes, from Pratt’s.

Liz shakes her head, ridding herself of the thoughts that plague her. She focuses her attention back on the outside world, willing her mind to _stop_.

Dembe tells them that he will wait in the car, smiling fondly at Reddington as he pronounces that Jazz isn’t really his thing. Red nods his head, returning the smile and briefly gripping the bodyguard on his shoulder.

The room is small, intimate, and definitely what Liz had expected. The lighting is dim, including the stage, and couches and tables are scattered around the room, the bar against the far wall. Music paraphernalia lines the walls; instruments and vinyls and blown-up album covers.

Liz and Red are arm in arm once more, so it gives her the opportunity to feel the way he _melts_ slightly, as he steps into the venue. The chatter and jazz music washes over them, a cacophony of sound at first, but as Liz adjusts, as she picks out the individual instruments, she is struck by the perfect harmony.

Red leads them over to a booth, before disappearing to get them both a drink. When he returns he is cradling two scotches. She thanks him with a nod of her head, takes a sip of her drink and turns to watch the musicians on the stage.

The low light dances and glints along the brass instruments and Liz watches, mesmerised. The music rolls over her, soothing and then exciting. She forgets in these brief moments the anguish of the day, her agonizing thoughts about the man next to her. For a moment, Liz closes her eyes and just _stops_.

Soon enough, however, her eyes skim across to Red, sitting across from her. His own are lidded, almost glazed, but he seems at peace. He is leaning back in the booth, cradling his drink and holding it to his lips. Liz watches him take a sip of the amber liquid before her eyes skitter away.

She doesn’t try to initiate any conversation, knowing that all he need right now is his music. Liz questions, silently, whether she should have come along, that perhaps he would have preferred to be alone. As the thought flashes through her mind she brushes it away, knowing that Red would not willingly part her side for anything, especially after the events of Paris.

They sit there for hours, the crowd building and then thinning around them. Empty glasses of drink are piled around them, but neither of them feels _too_ intoxicated. They’ve had enough to numb their more extreme senses, but are able to gracefully slide out of the booth, thank the band and barmen, and make their way out to the car.

A misty rain has begun to fall, the street lights turning the fog yellow. Dembe has the car already running, battling the biting chill of the outside world. Winter was setting in; it would be Christmas before she knew it.

They slide into the car and Liz’s gaze is drawn, immediately, to the man at her side. She is always drawn to Red.

He sits slightly slouched, his chin almost resting on his chest. He looks as if he is in pain, lips pinched and eyes narrowed slightly. His actions regarding yesterday have taken a toll, both physically and mentally. Liz can see that he is deep in thought, eyes glazed and bottom lip caught between his teeth.

She can’t stand it, his agonising expression, knowing that she is the reason he looks so haunted. Liz can practically see the murders playing out before his eyes. Raymond Reddington was a man of redemption, of _sin eating_. He had such little self-worth, cared nothing of his own soul.

_I absorb the misdeeds of others, darkening my soul to keep theirs pure_.

Reaching out, she grasps his hand in hers. He doesn’t look at her, but she can see tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. He squeezes her fingers gently, turning his head to look out the window. She hesitates, rolling the words around her tongue.

“Let me be your sineater, Red,” she whispers, “Just this once.”

He jerkily shakes his head, but his grip on her fingers tightens. He looks so incredibly _vulnerable_ and Liz aches at the sight. She undoes her seatbelt and slides closer to him, pressing her thigh and shoulder to his. They lapse into silence for the rest of the ride, choking down their emotions.

Dembe opens the door for them, expression solemn as he regards Reddington. When the man in question moves past, heading for the elevator, Dembe offers Liz a small reassuring smile, and her confidence is greatly bolstered by it.

When they reach their suite, Dembe wishes them both a goodnight and disappears off into his room. Liz stares after him, acutely aware of Red staring out the window, looking out on the nightlife of New York. He turns on his heel, not meeting her eyes and sits on the couch.

“You should rest, Lizzie, we are only here for the night,” he states quietly, still not looking at her. She wants to get changed and then join him, sit with him in companionable silence, so that he knows that she is _there_. Instead, she settles for slipping off her heels, knowing that there is the distinct possibility he could disappear while she is gone.

She settles next to him, noticing the way he turns his body slightly to face her. She wonders if he did it consciously. He has made himself another scotch and as he reaches for it, as it condensates on the coffee table, she grasps his wrist. He falls still immediately, eyes fixed on his drink.

His skin his warm in her hands, arm heavy as she tugs him closer. Red reaches up, rests his hand on her shoulder as if to stop her, but she pushes past. She captures his lips between her own, her hand still firmly grasping his wrist. He remains still; eyes open as she brushes her lips over his once more. Her resolve almost breaks, she almost pulls away, but his hand drifts up to gently grip her waist. That is all the encouragement she needs. She sucks at his bottom lip and it’s as if the walls fall, the dam breaks.

Red kisses her back with such a soft kind of passion that she doubts she’ll ever grow accustomed to it. His breath mingles with hers, his tongue swipes along her bottom lip, enters her mouth. Liz isn’t sure who moans, but she knows that his hands on her body, lips on her mouth are the only things she _needs_ in this world.

He leans forward, pushes her back against the pillows, the couch, so his weight is above her. His hands run up her sides, not fervently, but gently, as if she is fragile. He breaks the kiss, stares down at her. She pushes herself upwards, feeling her breasts press against his solid chest. He groans softly as she kisses him, trailing her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, over the soft skin of his stomach. She smiles as he rocks against her, igniting every nerve in her body. Her fingers trace up his sides and she is about to slide her palms against his shoulder blades before he pulls back abruptly, freezes.

“Don’t do this to me, Red,” she whispers, pleading with him, but she removes her hands all the same, waits for him to make the next move. He presses a kiss to her cheek that lingers, runs his thumb over her bottom lip.

“You can’t ask this of me, Lizzie,” he murmurs, eyes locked with hers. She is still as he leans down, bites gently on her bottom lip, before pulling away only slightly. She feels a shudder run through his body.

“This isn’t rejection, sweetheart,” he breathes against her. He draws away and then stands, still staring at her. Liz tiredly nods her head, slowly raising herself from the couch and quietly padding to her bedroom, leaving him in the lounge, in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Hope you all enjoyed the read! Feel free to let me know what you think and thank you all so much for you support! Chapter 17 is making great headway, so you shouldn't have to wait very long at all until it's out.


	17. Find My Love, Then Find Me

It was the _breeze_.

It had always been the breeze. Raymond always returned to this island, back to this particular resort, because of the breeze. It blew in off the Indian Ocean, spread out as it was before him, so blue and so endless and so _free_. It ruffled his trousers, tangled her hair, whispered over his skin and danced over hers. It _cleansed_.

_All I saw before me was... possibility_.

They had left New York in the early hours of the morning, and though Lizzie had grumbled when Dembe gently roused her, the untimely rise hadn’t bothered Red. Sleep had evaded him. He hadn’t even tried.

He’d sat on the seat across from the couch, staring into the darkness of the room. As his eyes slid shut, all he could see was Lizzie beneath him, her tousled hair and soft lips and her eyes; as blue as the ocean that he now stood before. He was certain that the taste of her would never leave him; had been certain of that ever since Iceland. He was certain that the heat of her body was the _only_ thing in this world that could warm him, certain that her moans would haunt him into the afterlife.

She had been silent the entire plane ride, not asking where they were off to, why they were leaving. Red at first assumed she was mortified by her actions, but he soon noticed the way her eyes slid over and rested on him, only jumping away when he returned her gaze. He took note of the way she’d softly smile each and every time he caught her.

Red was sure she was going to be the end of him.

He idly scratches at the scar she’d left on his neck, turning to face the villa they were currently occupying. Lizzie has gone to the spa, after Red’s insistence, with Putu. He hopes that the tension, the strain, she has been under these past weeks, months, years, could be _slightly_ lessened by the sweet Balinese woman’s magical hands.

Dembe had left them at the airport, taking a flight to Denmark. He was following up some leads regarding the Cabal; the shadow government’s unnerving silence. It concerns Red greatly, after the events of New Zealand, how they had all but given up on the chase. Perhaps their escape to Iceland had thrown them off the trail.

Red thought it highly doubtful.

A breath whistles through his teeth as he contemplates their next move, whether to switch from defensive to offensive. Donald would be back pursuing them in a matter of days, perhaps already was, knowing his work ethic. That would mean that they would have to take greater care with their travels, keep a lower profile. Not that Red was even _contemplating_ taking Lizzie out into public after the last two disasters _that_ had resulted in.

In any case, Ressler was a _good_ agent, knew what he was doing, had access to knowledge and information he wouldn’t have dreamed of now, compared to his initial, relentless and in the end, fruitless, pursuit of Raymond Reddington. There was the distinct possibility that he could track them down.

Red knew that if that happened, it could only, _only_ , happen after Lizzie was exonerated. He would be able to escape, weasel his way out of the FBI’s grasp, but not with Lizzie. It would be too difficult with the both of them. That only left him with one choice; to leave her behind, safe and vindicated of all crimes.

To end this chase would be agonising. Red didn’t want to admit it, would never voice the thought aloud, and kept it locked away in his scarred and battered chest cavity, but it was the truth. All this time, basking in Lizzie’s presence; those stolen moments and longing looks and furtive touches, they would all come to a screeching halt, an end. Red wasn’t sure he could do it; give up Elizabeth Keen once more, entrust her safety to others.

Raymond had trusted Sam implicitly with Lizzie, but as a little girl, as a surly teenager.

Things have changed.

Lizzie is a relentless force, so wild and fierce. Her blue eyes, sparkling sapphires, and a smile brighter than the sun; _God_ ¸ she is beautiful. She has hands that could heal, words that can soothe, hands that can _kill_ , and words that can _savage_. She had a name that sounds like a prayer as it rolls of his tongue; _Elizabeth_.

She had said that he had waltzed into her life, caused an upheaval, destroyed everything she held dear, and she was right; the guilt almost crippled him. Yet, she had _stormed_ into his life, raging and battered, furious and desperate. With a cut on her head and accusations rolling off her tongue, she’d plunged a pen into his neck without a flicker of remorse.

That was the closest anyone had come to killing him in _years_.

A laugh bubbles out of him, at his complete inability to shield himself from her, whether it be her fury or affection. He’d shed all his armour for her, knock down every wall. _Burn the world_. It would all be for her.

His smile lingers as he sees movement within the villa. She steps out, dressed only in a robe, skin shining from the oil. It is scented; jasmine. He breathes deeply.

“What’s funny, Red?” She asks and her voice is slightly gruff, sleepy. She drags her hand through her oiled hair, rolling the locks between her fingers, feeling the texture. Red’s hand twitches at his side.

“Looks like you enjoyed your massage,” is his response and she nods her head enthusiastically, smiling so brightly. She pads over to him, placing her weight carefully, cautious of the oil on her feet, so as not to slip. Red doesn’t move, but his hands briefly clench and unclench as she stops before him, only inches apart.

She is still smiling at him, her bottom lip briefly caught in between her teeth. Her hand darts out and wraps around his tie, tugging him closer. He merely raises a brow in response, locking his eyes with hers.

“I don’t understand why you _insist_ on these suits, Red,” she exclaims, exasperated, “we’re in Bali! At lease get rid of the jacket and vest!”

She’s laughing at him now and he’s smiling back so widely that his cheeks are beginning to ache. He slowly nods his head and remains still as she gently undoes his tie, wrapping the silk around her wrist. She then slowly sheds him of his jacket and Red can tell that her movements are measured and precise, so as not to touch him. It’s when she begins to unbutton his vest that her hand skitters across his collarbone and he inhales sharply, an electric spark passing through him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, snatching her hands away and looking up at him, slightly panicked as if he is about to disappear. He doesn’t blame her and just adds it to the guilt that weighs down his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he replies softly, finishing off the rest of the buttons of his vest, before shucking it and hanging it over his arm.

Her eyes are now downcast; she’s fidgeting with her scar. She looks skittish now; as if she is about to dart off into the villa, claiming a matter of great importance, such as having a shower or taking a nap.

“Happy now, are we, Lizzie?” He states jovially, spreading out his arms and turning a circle for her inspection. When he turns back to her, she’s smiling once more. “I’ll even roll up my sleeves for you, sweetheart.”

She laughs at him as he exaggeratedly unbuttons his cuffs and then, with great care, rolls up each white sleeve. Once he is done she nods her head once, in approval, a feigned look of seriousness on her face.

“Shall I get us some drinks?” Red offers, taking a step towards the villa, waiting for her to follow. She nods, stepping forward.

“Think I might have a shower though, but I’ll be quick.”

As he walks to the bar he is aware of her presence darting off to the bathroom. He looks up as he hears the door click open, just for one last glance. She already has her robe unwrapped, loose around her hips, chest exposed. And then she is through the door, the click of it shutting muted by the blood roaring in Red’s ears. He swallows, hard, and focuses on making their drinks, stilling his slightly trembling hands.

When she emerges, towelling her hair, dressed in soft white cotton dress, Red is sitting by the pool, sipping at his scotch. She glides over to him and sits down, cross-legged on the pool lounge beside him. He watches as her lips seal around the rim of her own scotch, the amber liquid slips into her mouth and slides down her throat.

“I’ve been thinking, Red,” she starts, eyes cast out over the pool and to the ocean before them. Her fingers are drawing patterns in the condensation of her glass. “About what happens, after this? If we ever get my name cleared, what happens then? Surely things can’t go back to the way there were?”

Her words sink into his skin, into his pores. They seep into his overwhelming fear of letting her go. He turns to look at her, head slightly tilted and gnawing on the inside of his lip. A sigh gusts out of him as he answers.

“That is entirely up to you, Lizzie. You could apply to work back at the Task Force, see if the FBI is receptive towards you after your name has been cleared. Perhaps you could pursue another line of work, a passion of yours. Whatever you wish, Lizzie, I will do what I can to ensure it will happen.”

Her brow is furrowed and her eyes slide to his. She takes her time to reply and when she does her voice is so _soft_ , so affectionate, but it’s tinged with panic, apprehension.

“And what about you, Red?”

Red looks away, can’t stand to look into her eyes, not sure if he wants to see pain there, not sure if he could bear it if he did. He settles on the coastline, watching as the waves thunder along the shore, the currents whisking them away once they have expended all their energy, given all that they can, desperately racing up the sand before falling short, never quite reaching the border.

“The Blacklist would be of no use, if we dismantle the Cabal, Lizzie, and therefore the FBI would have no need of me,” he murmurs and then pauses, takes a long drink of his scotch. “I would leave; disappear. My immunity deal would mean nothing.”

She nods her head slowly and, though as it tilts forward it curtains her expression, Red can see the tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. His heart aches and his stomach sinks like lead.

“Of course, I would make sure you could make contact, Lizzie,” he affirms, turning his body towards her, “I’ll always be there when you need me, always.”

“They could trace the contact,” she replies, a grim smile settling on her features, “I doubt they’d ever stop keeping tabs on me after these few years. You could get caught and then God knows what they’d do to you.”

_What’re they going to do to me that hasn’t been done before? Kill me? None of it is worse than losing you_.

He waits to reply, waits until he takes long enough that she turns to look at him, a question in her eyes. He studies the way her lips tremble, almost imperceptibly.

“It’d be well worth it.”

She draws a sharp breath, tries to smother it with her drink. Red goes to stand, wants to offer comfort, but she waves him off. The sting of rejection is piercing, until she looks up at him with a watery smile.

“I just don’t want to lose it again, Red.”

It’s understandable really. He recognizes where she is coming from, but he still wants to reach out to her, to touch. He settles for resting his hand on his thigh, takes another sip of his drink.

Red can easily imagine their parting of ways; standing on an abandoned airstrip, watching her slide into one of his vehicles, driven away to wherever she desired. He’d make sure that Dembe was aboard the plane, for his companionship. He would need his steady and unwavering support.

They sit in silence, the breeze wafting over them gently as the sun dips below the horizon. The staff of the resort dart over the beach. They are packing up chairs and umbrellas, bringing in lifeguard flags, trying not to struggle through the sand.

Neither of them is hungry, happy to sit and drink, share idle conversation and then lapse back into silence. Red is in charge of the bar and after getting them another round he returns to find that Lizzie has shed her dress and is now clad in a bikini, standing in the pool. The water flirts around her waistline. She can’t dip under the water, doesn’t want to soil her fresh bandage.

“Care for a swim, Red?” She asks, playfully splashing the water so that it sprinkles over his shoes. He frowns at her, before he places her drink by the edge of the water and makes his way back to his chair. She huffs at him.

“I do not partake, Lizzie, apologises.”

She laughs at him, loudly and sharply. She flicks more water over in his direction, the droplets marking his trousers.

“You were in the Navy!”

“The ocean is different,” Red responds uninterestedly, raising his chin. His guts twists when her face lights up and she moves to the edge of the pool.

“Let’s go down then!”

Red sternly shakes his head, indicating up at the sky. It is pitch-black now, it’d be dangerous. The current in this region is ferociously strong. Lizzie looks crestfallen, but Red is steadfast. Until her eyes seem to sharpen, her posture turns rigid. It’s as if someone flicked a switch, her demeanour changing so suddenly.

“What’re you hiding?”

He takes too long to reply, feels his heart rate rocket at her inquisitive stare. She is ever the profiler, her eyes flickering over his face, the way he fidgets slightly with the scotch glass in his hand. He feels his _God damn_ left cheek twitch.

“It’s something on your back. You always stopped me when I could have seen or touched your back,” she states matter-of-factly, gaze hard and assessing. Red stands and slowly approaches her. She opens her mouth to say more, but he slowly raises a hand and she remains silent.

He toes off his shoes, crouches down and then sits on the ledge of the pool. The water creeps up the material of his pants, staining them. Lizzie steadily watches him, aware that something monumental is about to occur. The air around them is filled with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

Red slides into the water, wastes no time approaching her. He has nothing left now; no defence, no reasoning. In the end they would have to part ways and Red was _tired_ of the secrets; she deserved everything, and he could give her this.

When he reaches her, still as she is, he tentatively reaches out and grasps her right hand, fingers resting on her scar. He slowly, so very slowly, brings it to his lips.

“I was there... the night of the fire, Lizzie, as you well know,” he whispers over her skin, leaving his lips pressed to her burn.

He can tell that she’s not breathing, but she manages to jerkily nod her head. She is staring at him, eyes wide. Her pulse jumps in her throat and he has to stop himself from moving forward and tasting it.

“There are certain aspects of that night that I will refuse to tell you,” Red sighs, pulling away from her wrist and staring into her eyes. “That is for your safety and I will _never_ compromise it.”

He skims his fingertips up her forearm to settle his palm at the base of her neck, the bandage of his wrist catching in her hair. She leans forward and he brushes his lips over hers, before releasing a shuddering breath.

And then he tells her. He tells her of how he heard the gunshot as he screamed at her mother, telling her to _get your daughter_ , as the flames licked around them. He tells her how Katarina Rostova had fled into the darkness, deserting her home and her daughter, after leaving her in the company of a madman; her father. She had died of weakness and shame only weeks later. He speaks of how he could hear her, Lizzie, screaming for help, for her mother, until her words were choked by smoke, how he feared he was too late; that his men dragging him back outside had wasted valuable time.

“You were an innocent child, Lizzie,” he rasps, wiping a tear from her cheek as his own fall freely into the water. “I couldn’t just leave you there.”

He talks until his voice is hoarse and the water has chilled around them. He tells her how he had stormed through the house, looking for her. When he had found her, burst through a locked door, she was passed out on the floor. She had been covered in ash, tightly holding a singed rabbit to her chest. Her wrist was burned, horrifically, as she had struggled at the door and then presumably the window, shattered glass littered the floor. Blood sluggishly slid down her arm. She hadn’t been able to jump, the bravery of a four year old not withholding against the sheer height of the fall. So, he’d scooped her up in his arms, but the fire was all around them now. It licked and slithered, and then Red was screaming, throaty howls of pain as it crawled up his back.

“We jumped out the window,” he murmurs, dropping her hand and slowly moving his fingers to the button of his dress-shirt. “When I managed to get us away from the house, stumbling through the darkness... I noticed that you weren’t breathing. I’d thought...”

His voice cracks and Lizzie is trembling all over now. Her lips are parted, tears tracking down her cheeks. The buttons are slippery between his fingers, he fumbles.

“But then you were _breathing_ , Lizzie, and the air around me had never been so fresh, so crisp, and it hasn’t been ever since.”

He had carried her off into the night, made the necessary arrangements to get her to Sam, to have her memory altered. He tells her of how Sam had taken her in without hesitation, had loved her from the day he set eyes on her. Red had known that she could not stay with him, that he would only be able to protect her from afar, especially whilst his burns healed, while he went through rehabilitation; the muscles of his back scorched so horrendously that it had taken months to regain full mobility.

“I never wanted to tell you about the burns, Lizzie, about that night,” He breathes, “I never wanted you to believe that... you were indebted to me. I never wanted to use them against you.”

She nods her head in understanding, gaze unwavering as he pulls his shirt aside, revealing his chest. Red can’t bring himself to move further, his muscles so unwilling.

“I came back into your life, Lizzie, for countless reasons. You were my second chance, my salvation. You _are_ the one thing in my life that I got right, that I succeeded in. At first my intentions had been to keep you safe. Purely that and perhaps keep a professional distance.”

He laughed quietly and she offered him a watery smile in return. He still hadn’t removed his shirt, as if the burns had begun to weep, as they had in the first few months of recovery, and caused it to stick to his body. Removing it would tear at the skin, pull apart the wound, afresh.

“And then you roared into my hotel room, stabbed that pen into my neck. You danced with me at the Syrian embassy, showed me how you had grown into a capable and beautiful woman; so fierce and brave. It was when you profiled me, made such an acute observation, in Montreal.”

She tilts her head at him, listening intently as he relays those fateful words.

_You need me. And you hate that about yourself because it makes you vulnerable_.

“I do need you, Lizzie, an indisputable fact. Your prowess as a profiler is well known, you’re _incredibly_ talented. However, you made a mistake.”

His heart skips at the way her eyebrows draw together, her gaze turns inquisitive. Red gnaws on the inside of his cheek, fingers still firmly clasped around the edges of his shirt, frozen shut.

“I don’t hate myself because you make me vulnerable, that people may be able to get to me through you, that you’re my weakness. I hate myself because it makes _you_ vulnerable, Lizzie. I hate myself because I’m the reason for all your pain and suffering. The person that I _love_ most is tormented and hunted because of _me_.”

“But _God_ , I do love you, Lizzie,” he confesses, “I’m too selfish to leave you; I can’t let you go, not now. I can’t... I can’t _trust_ that there is anyone out there worthy of your love, Lizzie, and for that reason, I won’t leave. I need to know that you’re happy, safe.”

“You’re so good at what you do, Lizzie, and it frightens me. You are the sun, burning and surging with energy, and killing yourself the brighter you shine; the more you succeed. Things continue to get more dangerous, the criminals darker, and the missions more... horrifying. This is why I think... it’s time to shed all my pretence. Shed my armour. So you and I... we’re on a level playing field.”

He grits his teeth, slides out of the sleeves of his shirt and discards the material, idly watching as the water soaks through it, as it drifts away. He can’t bring himself to meet her gaze. So he turns, hands trembling at his sides. He tries not to flinch at her muffled gasp.

When her fingers trace over his back, over the scorched and ruined skin, Red can’t _breathe_. Her touch is so tentative, so gentle and soft. Her palm slides from his lower back, roams up until she has her fingers wrapped around his shoulder. She gently tugs on it, turns him back around.

As he faces her, his heartbeat quickens. She is smiling at him, so _brightly_ , her eyes glistening and swollen, but she looks so happy.

“ _Red_ ,” she whispers, carding her fingers through the hair on his chest. So he moves forward, wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, took'em long enough. I hope I did this chapter justice, so please let me know what you think. Chapter 18 is short, sweet and should be up soon! Thank you for reading!


	18. Dark in Need of Light

Lizzie is the best scotch he has ever tasted; the remnants of their drinks melding together through their lips and tongues. The water stirs around them as she slides her hands up his back, as he presses her closer. He kisses away from her mouth, trails across her jaw line and down her neck, hands tightening on her waist as she moans quietly. Her skin, wet from the pool, tastes like chlorine.

He pulls back to look at her, gazing at her as she stares back. She is _enchanting_. Galaxies and nebulas swirl in the deep blue of her eyes, the swell of her hypnotic lips is fascinating. Her pink tongue darts between her teeth, a rare delicacy. She smiles at him, breathless.

“We need to get out of the pool,” he states, voice like rolling thunder. He grabs her hand and wades through the water, delighting in the way she laughs quietly behind him. As she tugs on his arm, halting his advance to the bedroom, she steps past him. They’re on the steps and now she is standing above him, one stone ledge higher. She leans down, rakes her fingernails over his scalp as she kisses him slowly, languidly. Her skin is so soft beneath his fingers, silky and smooth. And then her lips are gone and the only thing anchoring Raymond to the world is her small hand enveloped by his. She pulls him forward, towards the villa and he follows willingly.

When they reach the bedroom, Lizzie spins around and stands before him. Red takes a step towards her, slowly reaches out so that his hand grazes her hip. She’s grinning at him once more as his fingertips skate up her back, reaching the knot of her bikini. He deftly unties it; fingers sure as they brush against her skin. She is so _warm_. The material falls to the ground, lands around their feet. Red doesn’t let his gaze wander, doesn’t want to spoil it, before she is entirely unwrapped. He places his hands back on her hips, slides his thumb under her bikini bottom. She shivers under his touch as he pushes the garment down. When it falls to the floor, tangles around her ankles, she slowly steps out of it and Red takes a step back.

A blush rises up her body, tinges her red, under his gaze. Her breaths are short, eyes wide. He can’t help but smile, her nervousness so endearing because she is _stunning_.

“Oh, Lizzie,” he breathes, reaching out for her.

She smiles back at him, moves towards him to peel away the water soaked trousers that cling to his legs. Her hands tremble slightly at the buttons, so he clasps them between his own. Remaining partially clothed at least, Red gently leads Lizzie’s naked form to the bed; the sheets crisp and white, the pillows mountainous. He lays her down, follows after her, so that now his weight hovers above, forearms braced on either side of her head.

Lizzie reaches up, brushes her fingertips over his face. He feels his eyelids flutter closed at her sweet caresses. Her fingers dance over his cheeks, card through his sideburns, and breeze over his lips. She is watching him raptly, lips parted, breaths puffing over his face. She moves from his face to his hands, glides up his forearms.

Red lets her slide her hands over his body, across his torso, up his back and traverse over the scar tissue there. He shudders and then turns his attention to her. He presses his lips to her neck and then trails down her body. He sucks and licks and bites, maps her body with his tongue, every inch of it. She is quaking underneath him, a lovely smirk set in place when he glances up at her, positioned where he is at her hipbone. He smiles back at her, before crawling further down, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

Her fingers curl into the bed sheets, the noises she makes are a symphony. Red smiles against her soft, velvet skin, nestled as he is between her legs, hands on her thighs to steady himself. He teases and coaxes her with his tongue, delights when she sighs his name; it flows so flawlessly out of her mouth, when she reaches her completion. She arches her back, closes her eyes and _smiles_.

“ _Red_.”

He crawls towards her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead as her nimble hands reach between the heat of their two bodies. She doesn’t fumble with the buttons or zipper this time and Red soon finds that there is nothing separating them. Skin on skin. A breath shudders out of him; his skin feels as if it is _burning_.

A smile creeps over his face at the irony.

The blue of her eyes is almost entirely driven out by the blackness of her pupils, blown wide in arousal as she stares at him. They’re both so still, neither willing to break the moment. The night of the fire and everything in between, from that first day at the Post Office, to the discovery of Tom’s betrayal, Luther Braxton, the shooting of Tom Connolly and the events of Paris, had led them to this point.

She nods her head once as his eyes scan her face, waiting for a sign. He slides into her; his breathless moan pairing with her gasp. He falls still once more, doesn’t want to rush her, but she wraps her leg around him, pulling him in further. She leans up to kiss him, swallowing his groans as he rocks into her. They fall into a seamless rhythm, whispering to each other, kissing so slowly, knowing that they have all the time in the world.

“I’m never going to leave you,” Red promises, voice so soft and deep. Lizzie reaches up, cups his cheek in her palm and smiles at him, lip briefly catching between her teeth. He leans down and captures it between his own.

“Like I’d give you any other choice,” she growls in response. He breathlessly laughs back at her.

It all becomes too much, the pleasure so intense that they can’t speak. Red’s breaths become haggard and Lizzie’s fingernails dig into his back, leaving crescent moons across the ruined tissue. And like earlier, when Red had driven her over the edge, she breathes his name.

“ _Raymond_.”

He grins down at her, his name sounding so perfect, uttered as it is through her kiss-swollen lips. He says her name in return as he sinks into her one last time, muscles trembling with pleasure, arms barely supporting his weight. He slips out of her, pressing a kiss to her collarbone as he rolls to his side.

Her eyes are lidded, her breathing so deep and steady now. She is trying to stay awake, trying to watch him. So he slides his hand up her thigh, over her bum, to rest at her lower back. He gently kneads the muscles there, traces patterns over her back, smiles as her lips part, as she slips into sleep.

He tucks her closer, so he can nuzzle the nape of her neck, breathe in the fruity scent of her hair. He follows her shortly after; his possessive grip on her hip falling slack as sleep claims him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I'm super nervous about this chapter, so i hope you all enjoyed it! Chapter 19 is on its way and is a bit of an interlude before everything starts to get a bit more intense. Thank you for all you support!


	19. I'll Follow Your Voice

She wakes in the early hours of the morning, the weight of his arm heavy and draped over her hip. His face is slack, lips parted as he breathes deeply. The light filters through the open window, dancing over his skin, dusted with freckles. Lizzie smiles as she wriggles closer to him, drags her nails through the soft hair on his chest. Red mumbles something incoherent, tightening the fingers curled at her waist, turning to rub his face into his pillow.

Liz smiles, she smiles so brightly like she hasn’t in months. The gaping hole in her chest is so _light_ now, not weighing down upon her with the weight of regret, remorse, anxiety. Her actions, as disastrous and monstrous as they had been, had led them to this point. She is safely tucked away in Raymond Reddington’s warmth, buried into his chest, concealed in his heart. She is _safe_ here, with the man she loves.

He turns back to her and his eyelashes, so blonde and long, flutter, and his lips close. He’s waking, so Liz leans forward, kisses him deeply, aligns their bodies until they slot together, oh so _perfectly_. She gasps into his mouth and he rolls onto his back, releasing a groan, so she is now sitting astride him. Red doesn’t open his eyes, but smirks faintly and tightens his grip as he rocks into her. They are so slow, languid and lazy.

So far their sex hadn’t been what she had expected. She’d thought, perhaps, if they ever got together it would be after some near-death experience, a fire fight, an explosion; something that pounded adrenaline through their veins. Liz had thought that they would be animalistic, desperate and rough, coming together furiously, clashing and intense, like all their interactions. But Red takes his time, takes pleasure from drawing it out for as long as possible and Liz does not blame him or complain one bit. They have time.

Her skin is burning hot, his hands seared into her hips as he rolls his hips, rocks into her. Once they’re done, and with a contented sigh, Lizzie rolls off him. He _finally_ opens his eyes and they’re so beautiful, so green and _bright_. He laughs softly, reaches out and traces his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice deep and gruff. Liz moves closer to the sound, his voice so soothing. His fingertips skate up her back, before stopping abruptly at her burn, a frown marring his features. He pulls back and tosses the sheets away, slipping out of the bed. “We forgot to change your bandage.”

She laughs as he strides through the room, seemingly not self-conscious about his nakedness, but Liz notices the way he angles himself so she is not able to see his back. Her heart aches in her chest. When he returns, medical bag in hand, she manages to smile feebly at him, tucking the sheet around her as she sits up.

Red positions himself on the bed, tucked behind her. He deftly cleans and re-bandages her wound, before quickly replacing the ones on his wrists. They’re healing nicely, as far as Liz can tell. Once done, Red presses a kiss to her shoulder, tugging her back to his chest.

“I love you,” she murmurs, sighing and leaning into him. She hears his breath hitch and smiles to herself. She slowly runs her hands up his bare thighs.

“When?” He asks quietly and she turns in his arms, removing her hands and replacing them on his chest. It takes her a while to answer, eyes skimming over his chest. It’s marred with small scars, whites dashes across his skin and then, the most obvious and raw; the bullet wound, pink and puckered.

“I was so angry at you,” she starts, her voice breaking, “it hurt so much, everything Tom told me. I was sure it had broken me, that I would forever more be this... distraught and ruined thing.”

He is suddenly tense, the veins in his arms sticking out like ropey cords as he holds her to him. His eyes bore into hers, clouded with guilt.

“But then _none of it mattered_ , Red, because your blood was flowing through my fingers and I couldn’t _stop_ it. And as terrifying as the thought was that you never really cared about me, more so was the fact that I could _lose_ you. I realised that after _everything_ that had happened, losing you would be the worst, that everything else was meaningless. ”

She presses her lips over the pink scar, blinks back tears and swallows the emotion lodged in her throat, and kisses him. She trembles slightly, imagines that she can taste iron on her tongue, but when she looks up at him, he is looking down at her in awe, _alive_.

“And I know that the... shooting, happened before I was with Tom, but...”

As she hesitates, he hushes her, brings a finger to her lips as she falls silent. He shakes his head at her, softly smiling. Liz shudders out a breath, waits for him to say something.

“Can we go to China, Lizzie?” He asks quietly, eyes glinting at her obvious surprise, “Walk the Wall?”

She furrows her brow, huffing out a laugh and nodding her head. He presses a chaste kiss to her lips before grabbing her hand and tugging her out of bed.

“As delicious as you are, Lizzie, I am _positively starving_ ,” he proclaims, leading them both, still naked, out into the kitchen. A startled gasp interrupts Liz’s half-hearted protests and they both quickly spin to the door.

A staff member, a tiny young woman, is staring at them in horror, her plump cheeks shining red. Liz hides herself behind Red, her own burning in embarrassment. He lets go of her hand and clears his throat.

“Hello!” He says brightly, before vaguely waving a hand before them, “Raymond, Elizabeth. And you are?”

“M-made,” she stutters, seemingly frozen in place. Red nods his head, still smiling brightly before striding over to kitchen bench, where his wallet sits. He pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to her.

“I’m so sorry for this... display,” he states, voice so grave that Liz has to choke back a snort, “If you could still arrange some breakfast for Elizabeth and I, we would be extremely grateful.

Made nods her head, eyes wide as she shuffles quickly out of the room. Red spins back to Liz and grins triumphantly. Liz shuts her eyes and groans in embarrassment.

“Oh come now, Lizzie,” he chides, “it’s not all that bad. Let’s go have a shower before breakfast.”

Liz follows after him, ruefully shaking her head. He seems so energetic, so happy and it is intoxicating.

And so is the way he massages shampoo into her hair, fingers so firm on her scalp. She groans at the contact; feeling as if every muscle in her body is melting. She leans against him, feels his tummy press into her back. He chuckles and rinses the suds out of her hair before pulling her locks aside and sucking on her neck.

They hear a sharp rap of knuckles on the front door, before it clicks open. Red hums against her, reaching forward and turning off the shower.

“That’ll be breakfast.”

Changing her bandage when they had first woken up had been a waste of time, soaked as it was after their shower. Liz sighs as she sits on the bathtub, Red behind her.

“I think we could just leave it off, Lizzie, it seems to be healing quite nicely,” Red remarks as he peels the bandage away.

“If you think so,” Liz says with a shrug, not really caring all that much either way. If having the bandage on longer meant getting further attention from Red, she didn’t mind all that much. He sits and contemplates for a moment, and Liz can see in the mirror the way he chews on his lip, eyes scanning over her skin.

Red eventually stands, deciding that the bandage is no longer necessary. He grabs his dress shirt, a deep blue colour, and smiles as Liz reaches out and slides her arms into the sleeves. His fingers are nimble as they do up the buttons and once he reaches the top, he presses a kiss to her collarbone. He lingers there.

“Don’t you just look beautiful, sweetheart?” He sighs against her, eyes darting up to meet hers, “I told you that you were a winter, not an autumn.”

She laughs at him in exasperation, standing and smacking him on the chest. He wanders off to his bedroom and Liz follows, watching avidly as he dresses into his suit. He is so precise, so efficient and she can’t help but roll her eyes. Once dressed, they emerge together, Red a few steps ahead, eager to eat.

The breakfast is lavish, piled on the table; fruits and pastries, juices and coffees, eggs, bacon and sausages. Red all but makes a similar moan to when Liz kisses along his collarbone as he sits down, dragging the pastry tray over and begins to build a mountain of them on his plate.

“So, why the Wall?” Lizzie asks as she serves herself; just some fruit and green tea. Red looks up from his meal, brow creased.

“You’ve never been there, Lizzie,” he states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “and it’s somewhere you just _have_ to go and _experience_.”

She smiles at him, slips a piece of watermelon into her mouth, speaks around it.

“Okay, when do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Some fluff before we fall headfirst back into the angst. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and twelve should be up soon! It's going to get pretty intense, so prepare yourselves! And thank you for your continued support!


	20. We'll Be Heading For A Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning; Suicidal Thoughts

It is incredibly humid and Lizzie’s hair forms _magnificent_ curls because of it. Red finds himself throughout their stay, unconsciously, twirling them between his fingers as he speaks to her. She doesn’t seem to mind, especially now, eyes drawn to the scenery around them, navigating her way through the bumbling tourists.

He marvels at how at ease she looks among the masses; sunglasses on and travel-bag slung over her shoulder. Red is sure that she has a weapon tucked away somewhere on her body, her clothing as loose and flowing as it is. He laughs quietly at the thought and her gaze flickers over to him, a question dancing in those bright blue eyes. He can only smile back, reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

They left Bali a few days after their revelations, confessions, Red wanting to drag Lizzie across the globe with him. He wants her to experience everything that she can, experience everything he had enjoyed in his travels; wants to know how her hair smells after she swims in the waters of Bora Bora, how she tastes after an authentic Mango Lassi in India, watch her skin glow under the rays of the Spanish sun. He wants everything for her.

For now, they had started with walking the Wall and it truly is an incredible experience; the sheer magnitude of the structure is difficult to comprehend. The ancient history is carved into the very stones they stand upon, even as they are worn away by the practical shoes of tourists.

Red catches the eye of one the many men that form their security detail. He nods at him solemnly, his eyes jumping away immediately and alighting on another. They were moving slowly with Red and Lizzie, dressed as the typical tourist; cameras hung about their necks and their satchels and bum-bags screamed tourist, but perhaps not the weapons concealed within them. Their eyes were trained on Red and Lizzie, occasionally flicking away to scan their surroundings. Red had not wanted to take any chances.

“Have you got any plans for tonight, Red?” Lizzie asks, bringing his attention back to her. She comes to a stop and starts fossicking through her bag, before producing a pamphlet and scanning over the text, eyes jumping back to the landscape before them. When her gaze returns to him, he shakes his head and indicates that they should keep moving, as the crowd filters around them.

As they move forward he catches the eye of a young man, around Lizzie’s age. He is leaning against the side of the wall, his posture one of forced casualness, left hand lightly resting on his hip. His eyes are wide, expression startled as he stares back at Reddington.

Red’s heart jumps into his throat as his phone rings in his pocket, and snapping his gaze away from the stranger, he answers it. Coming to a sharp stop and latching onto Lizzie’s wrist as Aram shouts down the line,

“You need to get out! Agent Ressler is there, he knows where you are! You need to get out!”

Lizzie’s stance changes immediately as Red tugs her into the opposite direction, dropping the phone and seeing out the peripheral of his vision the undercover agent moving after them. The security detail Red had organised realises something is wrong immediately, and they flock to surround Red and Lizzie as they force their way through the hustle of the crowds.

Shouts erupt around them as members in the crowd break free, revealing themselves to be FBI, weapons drawn. Lizzie breaks into a run, dragging Red with her as he pulls his own weapon from the waistband of his trousers.

“How did they find us?” Lizzie shouts. She is breathless as she runs, throwing the bag she had slung over her shoulder to the ground. Red doesn’t respond, he doesn’t _know_. He chases after her, grip slick on his gun. She pulls her own weapon from the holster strapped around her ribcage.

The crowd seems to break before them and Lizzie skids to a stop, raising her gun to mirror Donald Ressler. He stands metres from them, gun drawn and posture rigid. As Red stares at him, he can see the deep crevices of frown lines wrinkling Ressler’s brow, the greying hair at his temples. He looks thinner, less muscular and heavily leans on his right leg. He looks _old_.

“Put the gun down, Keen,” Ressler orders, his voice gruff, “You’re not getting out of this.”

Red is pleased to see the hold that Lizzie has on her gun does not waver. Her eyes do, however; desperation draping over them like a smothering blanket. He takes a cautious step towards her, noticing the heat creeping up her cheeks, the minute tremble of her lower lip. She has not looked away from Ressler.

“Come with us, Keen. If you’re innocent, let us prove it.”

“If I put my weapon down, you’ll let Red go,” She requests, voice firm, stance shifting slightly. Ressler’s eyes flicker between them. They were surrounded, Red’s security detail apprehended, handcuffed already. They weren’t getting out.

“I won’t be leaving you, Elizabeth,” Red growls, waiting for her to look over to him, wanting to make sure that she’ll remain reasonable. Her hands are trembling now. She glances over at him when he speaks, eyes filled with unshed tears. Her jaw is locked.

“Turn around, Red,” she orders, her tone cold and flat. Red doesn’t move, he remains rooted to the spot. Terror is clawing its way up his spine as he feels himself losing control of the situation, unable to stop the ideas whirling through Lizzie’s mind.

“Why?” He croaks, ignoring Ressler for the moment, focused only on Lizzie and the way her eyes are darting around the scene. He slowly leans down and places his weapon on the ground, kicks it towards an agent.

“Because you won’t want to see this,” she snarls in reply, before returning her attention to Ressler, “If I come with you, you have to let him go.”

“You know I won’t let that happen, Keen,” Ressler states, and it seems as if he has picked up on the wavering control Lizzie has on her emotions, his tone placating.

Lizzie, with shaking hands, raises the barrel of the gun and levels it with her temple. The world shutters to a stop around Red; all sounds are muted, his vision tunnels onto her trembling form. Her breaths are rushing out of her in short bursts, eyes red-rimmed and full of desperation. He takes an unsteady step towards her, but she flinches back from him, movements jagged and animalistic.

Ressler has lowered his weapon, fear bleeding into his eyes before they jump to Red’s. The agents around them are sharing unnerved glances, because Lizzie, for all the blame and accusations upon her, is still _loved_.

“Lizzie,” Red says, he tries to sound strong, affirmative, but his voice is weakened by the sight before him. She turns her icy blues eyes onto him, shaking her head furiously. Red steels himself, though his heart is thundering in his chest, his veins are throbbing with adrenaline, he needs to appear calm.

“They’re not going to call your bluff, sweetheart,” he says softly, taking a step towards her. She doesn’t flinch back, but she presses the barrel firmly against her temple. Red stills immediately.

“I’m not bluffing, Red!” She shouts at him angrily, baring her teeth as she looks back at Ressler. She is so _wild_ ; hackles raised now that she is threatened.

“You’re bluffing, Lizzie,” he murmurs, taking another step forward and reaching out for her wrist, “they know, and so do you, that if you pull that trigger...”

And his voice catches, because the thought is so terrifying, and Red can’t bear it. Something softens on her face; the barrel lowers ever so slightly and it suddenly becomes easier to breathe.

“They know that if you pull that trigger, Lizzie, I’ll just follow you.”

She stops, paling at his words, eyes wide as she stares at him. Her lips part and she lowers her arm entirely. Red moves forward, clutches her arm and waits for Ressler to pounce, for the handcuffs to shackle around their wrists, but no one moves.

He snaps his head up and Ressler looks in a daze as he stares at them, Lizzie’s form curled into Red’s as she sobs. His eyes sharpen immediately when he senses Red’s gaze and he raises his weapon, barking orders at his men as they advance forward. One of them latches onto Red’s shoulder, tugging him away from Lizzie’s embrace.

The gunshot is loud, devastating, as it rips through the agent’s chest, spattering Red, Lizzie and the surrounding men in thick clots of blood. Screams of terror ring out amongst the remaining tourists as they disperse like a stampede. Donald begins shouting at his men as another shot cleaves through an agent. Bodies begin to drop around them and Red tries to tuck Lizzie further into him, tries to shield her from the onslaught.

Red’s men are yelling, trying to frisk the agents’ dead bodies, looking for keys to their handcuffs, their weapons. When one of them manages to free themselves, and they stand, they fall immediately, a bullet blown through their skull.

“We need to get away,” Red shouts over the sound of gunfire, tugging Lizzie along the ground with him, “It has to be the Cabal, Lizzie, and they’ll shoot to kill.”

The ground explodes by Red’s face, gravel imbedding itself in his skin. Lizzie screams and recoils. He tightens his grip on her hand, terror roaring through his veins. The FBI and some of Red’s men manage to return fire, but they’re running out of time, they’re running out of bodies to _hide_ behind.

Ressler is still shouting, is now crouched by the wall, back pressed against it as he scopes the scene. His aim is true; Red can see that much as one of the assailants slumps to the ground. Their eyes meet and then Ressler’s flicker away, firing once more.

“Red!” Lizzie screams. Her fingers are digging into his skin, drawing blood. He looks back to her, but her eyes are focussed elsewhere. He follows her gaze to see a man, armed, bearing down on them, gun raised, aiming between Red’s eyes.

He breathes deeply, forces Lizzie behind him as he looks up into the eyes of his killer before they slide closed. All he can feel is Lizzie’s shaking form behind him, all he can remember is the sweet taste and softness of her skin, the sound of her voice as she whispers to him.

The shot rings out; Red flinches and then _curses_ himself for doing so, for not having the courage to face death as he had always wanted. Lizzie screams, claws her way over his body and Red’s eyes snap open.

Two prone forms lay in front of them. One has a bullet buried in their skull; the man who had almost killed Red. The other is on his back, hands pressed to his chest as blood bubbles between his lips, running into his strawberry-coloured hair. He gasps for breath, sky blue eyes boring into Lizzie’s as she crouches over him, sobbing.

Donald Ressler’s blood seeps out around them, soaking into Lizzie’s clothes. He’s feebly pushing her away, protests gasping from his mouth; he’s telling her to go, to _run, Keen_. She won’t leave him. She flinched as bullets rain around her, but she won’t leave him.

“Go with him,” Ressler rasps, “He’ll keep you safe, Liz.”

Red lunges for her, latches onto her forearm and drags her away from Ressler. She’s screaming at him, grasping for her partner as he bleeds out in front of them. Red’s grip is unyielding and he ignores her desperate protests as they make a dash for cover; the silence eerie when they get inside a building, the gunshots muted.

Lizzie is still pushing against him, frantically attempting to get back to Ressler, but Red drags her down the winding stairs. His breathes are sharp and her sobs loud as they dart down the staircase, bursting through the doors and making it to the parking lot. Red shoots the windows out of the first car he sees. When he spares a glance back up to the top of the Wall figures are still firing their weapons and for now the Cabal seem distracted with the remaining forces of the FBI.

He all but shoves Lizzie into the car, firmly closing the door behind her, before hurriedly moving to the other side. When he slides into the driver’s seat, Lizzie, with shaking fingers and breathing heavily, is hotwiring the vehicle. It roars to life and the tyres screech as they pull away, stray bullets sinking into the metal and shattering the back window.

“Look for a phone,” he orders, but it’s as if Lizzie doesn’t hear him, choking down her sobs, “ _Elizabeth_ , look for a phone.”

She reaches forward and rifles through the glovebox, before producing a tablet, clicking it open and discovering it has battery.

“We need to get somewhere with an internet connection,” she whispers quietly, dropping the tablet on her lap and staring out the window. Red glances at her, before pressing his foot to the accelerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter absolutely ran wild. Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think! Chapter 21 should be up soon! We're starting to wrap things up! Thank you, once again, for your support!


	21. Festering Like A Bullet Wound

They find themselves at a McDonalds, in the early hours of the morning. Red has driven them as far from the Wall as he possibly could; only stopping to steal another car, hoping to throw the Cabal off their trail. Lizzie sits across from him, tablet in hand as she makes contact with Dembe. Red has always been hopeless with them and has delegated the job to her, hoping to distract her.

She hasn’t spoken, merely sat in the passenger seat, tears sliding down her cheeks. Every now and then her breath had hitched and Red couldn’t help but glance over to her, but she never met his gaze. He had tightened his grip on the steering wheel, trying to rid the images of her holding that gun to her head.

Forgotten fries and cheeseburgers lay abandoned before her. She won’t eat and Red can’t muster the strength to argue or push the point; he has no appetite either. Panic and anxiety have always been corrosive to his hunger and his veins are riddled with it.

“Dembe’s organised us a flight to England,” she mumbles, sliding the tablet over to him and indicating the address on the screen; an airfield. Red slips out of the booth, waits for Lizzie to do the same, before walking out into the carpark and sliding into their stolen vehicle. They drive in silence; Red feeling as if he is suffocating under the emotions that choke him.

Dembe is waiting for them on the tarmac. Who knows how close he had been, having left Denmark the same time Lizzie and Red departed Bali. Red just presumed he had flown in as soon as Aram had contacted him after losing connection with Red.

With Dembe is a squad of men that are there to deal with what has been left in Lizzie and Red’s wake; the stolen cars, their belongings left in their hotel room. They disperse as soon as he and Lizzie drag themselves out of the car, sliding into the vacated seats and accelerating away.

“Brother,” Dembe intones, walking to embrace Raymond, holding him tightly. It’s as if he is able to sense that more than just the attack has rattled Red. Lizzie walks past them, pale and drawn. Red breaks away from Dembe and follows after her.

She has curled herself up on the couch, back to the both of them. Her breaths are short, haggard. She is crying once more. There is no possibility that Ressler survived and they are both acutely aware of it. If he had managed to survive the bullet wound, the Cabal would have made sure that they tied up loose ends. Red wonders if she blames him for her partner’s death. Ressler was killed by the bullet that was destined for Raymond.

He looks at her, the way her hair has spilled over her face. It covers her temple, but Red can imagine that she can still feel the cold steel she had placed there. He feels sick and turns away. She needs her space and he needs his.

Moving down to the back of the plane, Red is aware of Dembe’s presence following him. Sitting heavily in one of the chairs, he is concealed from Lizzie. A sigh gusts out of him and he tilts his head up to the roof of the plane, his eyes sliding closed. Her shaking hands and the glint of steel flash across his eyelids and they snap open. Dembe settles a gentle hand on his shoulder and Raymond feels his eyes sting.

“I could have lost her,” Red whispers and his voice is so weak, so quiet. Dembe tightens his grip briefly, eyes searching over Red’s face.

“But you did not, Raymond,” Dembe replies, glancing down the plane, eyes resting on Lizzie’s form before jumping back. “Have faith in Agent Keen’s abilities.”

Red shakes his head, throat tightening and tears once more pricking at his eyes. Dembe releases his grip, leans back in his chair, assessing his friend. He doesn’t understand, he wasn’t there, doesn’t know what Lizzie had threatened to do.

This had been what Red had always wanted to avoid, but this was something he had been unable to predict, unable to even _contemplate_. He had known that his love for Lizzie would be dangerous, potentially deadly. He had known this and had been comforted by the fact that he could protect her, from anyone or anything that threatened her. What he hadn’t predicted was that Lizzie loved him so fiercely in return, that it could drive her to such extreme and destructive lengths. He swallowed through the tightness in his throat as Dembe opened his mouth to speak.

“Go to her, Raymond.”

And he did, because the only thing that could anchor Red in the swirling and turbulent emotional tide he was drowning in was her heat, her touch.

She rolls over at his approach, eyes swollen and red, and makes room on the couch, leaning into him as soon as he sits down. She is trembling slightly as she buries her head into his chest. He clutches at her, pulls her to him, as close as she can possibly be, presses a kiss to the top of her head.

They will need to talk, to discuss her actions, but right now what they need is comfort, the only kind they can find with each other. He breathes deeply into her hair, eyes sliding closed. The adrenaline of the past day has worn off and he feels her slump against him, her breaths evening out. He follows her.

Dembe rouses Red many hours later, but is careful to not jostle or wake Elizabeth. His expression is grim as Red extracts himself gently from Lizzie’s grip. He holds a manila folder in his hand and indicates that Raymond should sit before passing it to him.

“The leak,” Dembe begins, and his voice trembles with barely restrained fury, “It was Mr. Vargas.”

Red flicks through the information, a steady burn of rage building within. Aram had worked quickly, as had Dembe, in assembling all possibilities and loose ends that could have led to both the FBI and the Cabal ambush. Obviously, they had been planned separately, the FBI not aware of the Cabal’s presence. The latter had wanted Red arrested; the Cabal had wanted him dead.

“He leaked information to the FBI, knowing that the Cabal would find out about it. Why does he want us dead?” Red asks, eyes darting over to the woman curled up on the couch.

Lizzie shifts in his sleep, reaching out for him and finding a pillow instead. She drags it to her chest, falling still once more. Red returns his attention back to Dembe, having seen enough of Vargas’ betrayal.

“I do not know, Raymond. When we track him down, we can ask.”

“I can’t go after him,” he states, pointedly looking back at Lizzie, “so you can either organise something or send someone else.”

Dembe nods his head, accepting the folder back and moving to the cockpit to make the necessary arrangements. Red goes to the bar and pours himself a scotch, downs it, and then pours himself another. Lizzie mumbles something in her sleep and Red sits across from her, watching her for the remainder of the trip.

When they land and are ushered out of the plane by Dembe, Lizzie is still quiet. Grief swims in her eyes and Red’s heart aches at the sight of it. He grabs her hand and she squeezes his in return.

A black sedan is idling on the airstrip for them, the cool breeze of England a stark change to the hot, humid climate of China. The trip to just outside of Bath will only take an hour or so, but Lizzie falls back to sleep anyway. Red can’t bring himself to let go of her hand.

She wakes on her own as they traverse up a dirt road, bumping along uncomfortably. Dembe’s frown can be seen in the rear-view mirror; he’s concentrating, yet is still managing to hit every pothole. Red stifles a tired smile.

Lizzie turns to look at him and her eyes seem so _dim_ and Red can’t bring himself to look back at her; guilt sliding through his veins, weighing down his chest.

“Where’re we going?” Lizzie questions, her voice quiet. When she realises he won’t meet her gaze she looks back out the window, pulling her hand away from him.

“I’ve got a secluded cottage up here,” he replies, “It’s fully stocked and no one will bother us.”

They lapse back into silence, but when the little stone cottage comes into view Lizzie lets out a sigh and a small smile quirks at her lips. Red’s heart just about leaps at the sight.

It’s started to drizzle outside, so, after Red bids him to do so, Dembe escorts Lizzie inside with his umbrella. Red follows after them, trepidation in each step, taking in the quaint building. The stones are stained by the rain and ivy crawls up the side that faces to the east. The garden is full, loud in both colour and sound; the blooms of flowers, bright and the singing of crickets, present.

He walks up the stone steps and pushes the heavy oak door open. The stale smell of an unused house greets him, cold and musty. Red enters straight into the living room and hangs his coat in the closet to the side of the door. The hearth is cold, but Dembe is already crouched before it rolling up paper.

A lamp is alight in the corner, tucked behind the couch that Liz is curled up on, her eyes glued to the television that rests on a cabinet pressed against the stone wall. A news presenter flickers on the screen, their accent strong and their voice droning.

“It has been confirmed that Raymond Reddington and Elizabeth Keen were ambushed by the FBI whilst sightseeing at the Great Wall of China, yesterday,” they state, staring down the lens of the camera. “This confrontation resulted in the deaths of twelve FBI agents and several of Reddington’s security personnel, who reportedly initiated the conflict by opening fire on the crowd of civilians. These events have been labelled as acts of terrorism. The Chinese Government is now in discussions with President Obama, claiming that this blatant attack on Chinese soil will not be tolerated.”

Red turns his gaze to Lizzie, she has her eyes squeezed shut, but a tear still manages to escape and roll down her cheek. He moves towards the remote, to switch off the television, but her voice pulls him up short.

“Don’t.”

Her eyes are back open and her teeth are gritted together. She is staring at the screen as the pronouncer continues. Dembe has stopped moving by the hearth. The house is silent except for the voice projected from the speakers.

“It has been reported that Raymond Reddington shot Assistant Director Donald Ressler point blank in the chest, leaving him to bleed out and die, before escaping with Elizabeth Keen.”

Dembe stands from where he is crouching at the hearth, moving over to stand by Reddington’s side. His steady presence is reassuring as an image of Ressler’s face flashes over the screen. The presenter goes on to say that Ressler’s body will be returned to America for a private funeral in a matter of days.

Lizzie’s face looks to be made of stone when she leans forward, snatching at the remote and jabbing the power button. The screen snaps to black and the room falls silent. She turns to both of them, eyes hard. Red feels Dembe move away and disappear deeper into the cottage.

“I want to _end them_ ,” she snarls, standing and striding over to Red. She seizes him by the already rumpled lapels of his suit and pushes him against the wall. His hands instinctively snap up to her wrists, but his grip is soft. He caresses her scar and her eyes flutter closed.

“We need to talk about your... actions today, Lizzie,” is his reply and her eyes snap open. Her grip on his clothes tightens and she presses a bruising kiss to his lips, releasing a noise like a snarl as she does so. When she pulls away her eyes are a molten blue.

“They’ve taken so much, Red. They don’t get to have you, either,” she leans forward and rakes her teeth down his neck, before breathing against him, “you’re _mine_.”

Her hands slide beneath his shirt as his head drops back and thumps into the wall. He groans as she runs her fingernails over his skin, slowly nipping her way down his neck, salving the sore skin with her tongue.

Red feels his hands rise of their own accord, even as his mind screams at him to _stop_ , that they need to _talk_. But they need this _more_ , this physical reassurance that they’re both alive, here with each other. She smiles in triumph against his neck as his palms skate over her abdomen, tugging her shirt over her head. He is still pinned against the wall, her leg wedged between his own. A growl escapes him as her fingers fall to his belt, nimble and impatient as she tears at the buttons.

He leans down to capture her lips with his, biting down on her bottom lip so hard that she emits a muffled squeal. She pulls back to glare at him before dropping to her knees and tugging, agonisingly slowly, at his trousers. Red’s heart is thundering within his chest, breaths ragged as she stares up at him, smirk firmly in place.

Her hair is like silk as he runs his hand through it, gathering it in his grasp, but as his fingers graze her temple she pulls back and hisses in pain. Red freezes, the building heat and arousal plummeting as he spots the ring of purple marking Lizzie’s skin. He feels ill and shifts away from her, moving towards the couch and leaving her crouching before an empty space.

Lizzie’s head sags, a sigh escaping her as she turns to look at him. She rises slowly, grabbing her shirt from where it was piled on the floor and slipping it over her head. Red watches her as she cautiously moves towards him.

“I was once in Afghanistan conducting business with an arms-dealer,” Red begins; his voice is hoarse, “We were traversing through the desert for _days_ on end; only God knows how we survived it. This dealer, Malcolm, had a hidden bunker, completely isolated from anyone and anything. There were no roads in or out.”

Lizzie shifts on her feet, her focus entirely on Red. She has her arms crossed over her chest and she is gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Her lips are swollen and she briefly runs her tongue along them.

“When we eventually got there, sunburnt and dehydrated, a message was waiting for me. One of Malcolm’s men told me that Dembe had been taken.”

Red’s eyes flicker to the direction that he had seen his faithful friend disappear down. He clenches and unclenches his hands, moving his gaze back to Lizzie. She nods her head, encouraging him to continue.

“He had just turned nineteen, had just started college,” Red states, “and he is _strong_ , stronger than I could ever hope to be Lizzie, but... the things Dembe has gone through... the events that could _trigger_ him are too horrible to even imagine. The... thought that after his survival, after all of his courage and bravery in fighting his demons, could be obliterated because of his association with me...”

His voice catches and he turns away from her, moving to the kitchen to find himself some scotch. Lizzie waits in silence as he pours himself a glass, takes a long drink from it.

“I never thought that I would ever be as frightened or terrified as I was during that time, struggling through the burning sands of Afghanistan, to get back to him, to make sure that he was okay, that he would be okay,” he takes a larger mouthful of scotch, savours the burn as it slides down his throat. “But then you held that gun to your head, Lizzie...”

Red gives up then, can’t go on any further, can’t talk past the lump of fear wedged in his throat. Lizzie’s eyes are full of tears once more and she walks forwards, a sob escaping her as she hugs him, arms slipping around his neck.

“Oh _God_ , Red, I thought... I thought you knew I was bluffing. I needed them to let you go,” she gasps into his neck, her hot tears spilling onto his skin. He tightens his grip on her hips, pulling her closer and shifting so that his lips are pressed to the shell of her ear.

“That is not the point, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “that... was something I _never_ wanted to see. And the fact that you thought I would just _leave_ you... I can’t comprehend that, Lizzie.”

She pulls back to look at him then, her brows creased into a frown. Her hand rises and she traces a finger along his jaw line.

“I knew that if they took me, Red, and you got away, that you’d come after me,” she states simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It _is_ the most obvious thing in the world. “They wouldn’t have been able to stop you. It was a plan... I just, I thought you’d catch on.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead, huffing out a laugh before looking down at her and nodding his head. She was right; he would have rescued her. He tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

“But never do it again,” he rumbles, pressing his forehead to hers and breathing deeply, “next time we’ll think of a better plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about Ress! I hope you still enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for reading!


	22. Take All The Courage You Have Left

Liz wakes to an empty bed, the early morning sun filtering through the window and splashing the deep red of the timber floorboards in light. She stretches, the cool of the sheets contrasting with the heat of her skin. She does not want to rise, her body aches and her mind is sluggish after the events of the past few days. Liz doesn’t want to _think_ , let alone move.

She rolls to her side, tucking the sheets around her bare chest as she hears a knock at the door. When she calls out, it cracks open and Dembe steps into the room, smiling softly at her. In his hands is a tray carrying a plate piled high with bacon, eggs and toast as well as a steaming cup of coffee.

“Raymond has been cooking,” he says fondly, almost as if he is proud, placing the tray on the bedside table. “He is just having a shower.”

Liz smiles brightly at him, scooting so she can sit upright in the bed and grasping the tray, placing it on her lap. Dembe nods his head at her thanks as he exits the room. She grabs the knife and fork and tucks in, delicately balancing the tray.

When the door opens once more, it is Red that steps through, chest exposed and a towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is golden and dusted with freckles and his smile is bright when his eyes fall upon Liz.

“Good?” He queries, moving to the wardrobe and dropping the towel. The doors creak as he opens them and begins fossicking around for an outfit.

“Not as good as the view,” Liz laughs, taking a sip of her tea and running an appraising eye over his naked form as he turns back to grin at her. He then pulls on some briefs and begins the agonisingly precise method of dressing himself. Liz rolls her eyes and turns her focus back to her meal.

He sidles up to the bottom of the bed, once dressed, smirk firmly in place. Liz returns his gaze, frown marring her brow at the glint of mischief in his eyes. His hand is like lightening as it latches onto her ankle.

The tray and remainder of Liz’s breakfast flies off her legs, over the bed and onto the floor, as Red yanks her down the bed. She’s kicking and laughing as he pins her beneath him, her legs now dangling off the edge of the bed. His tie tickles at her exposed skin, brushing over her chest as he leans down to kiss her. He is slow about it, as if he is tasting her like a critic would a five-star meal. When he pulls back, he is grinning at her.

“It tastes pretty good to me.”

Liz shakes her head at him, standing and getting dressed, slipping on a pair of jeans and a jumper, completely ignoring Red’s overdressed attire. She follows him out to the living room where the fire in the hearth is crackling and Dembe is spread out on the couch, watching a movie.

There is paperwork strewn across the dining table and Liz’s gaze drifts over it, absorbing the information she sees. It’s about the Cabal, documents of what the Fulcrum contained. She turns to Red, who is steadily watching her with his head tilted.

“I want revenge,” she says darkly, picking up a document and pursuing its contents. A steady hatred burns in her blood now, she has had _enough_.

Red nods his head and comes to stand beside her, eyeing the mess of the table with severe gravity. He smells fresh from his shower, like mint and pine.

“Steps will need to be put in place to still ensure your exoneration,” he states and Liz feels her stomach jerk, a surging panic rising in her, but from what, she doesn’t know. She nods her head, ignoring the spike in her heartbeat.

“Is that slowing the process down?”

Red spins on his heel, assessing her, eyes flickering over her face. He is gnawing on the inside of his lip again. He nods his head once, turning back to the table.

“However, it is necessary to prove your innocence, Lizzie,” his voice is firm and when he meets her eyes, he looks so determined. Liz releases a sigh, conceding for now.

She moves to go sit on the couch with Dembe, who has now procured a tub of ice-cream. He offers her a spoon and she accepts it happily, greedily digging into the soft chocolate treat. He is watching an old film she has never seen before and she can’t really follow it. She, instead, focuses her attention on Red.

He has positioned himself at the table, scanning over the manila folders and documents at a steady pace, occasionally taking notes and tossing papers into the fire. It is interesting to watch him work like this, his brilliant mind being put to use, but for once in _silence_. Liz can see the concentration in his eyes, the way he absentmindedly flicks the pen between his fingers as he reads. He still moves his lips and Liz has to hide her smile as his green eyes jump up to meet hers.

Liz loves the way his eyes glint when they look at her now, as if she is a magnificent piece of art, something to be admired. She loves the way her stomach lurches when he smiles at her, so tender and soft. She loves the way he kisses her, dragging his lips over every inch of her skin, memorising the contours of her body by touch, not just sight alone. She cherishes the way he looks at Dembe, so proud and caring, and she cherishes the love that Dembe so easily returns, even now as he lounges on the couch shovelling food into his mouth when he should most likely be helping Red organise their plans. She can’t imagine being anywhere else than where she is right now, safe with the man she loves and his best friend.

And that is why the panic had almost choked her before, because she doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to return to _normal_. There is not the slightest possibility that she would be allowed to return to the Taskforce and even if she was, Red wouldn’t be able to return with her, his immunity deal meaning nothing. Liz could not consider leaving his side, knowing what it is like to live with him now, have his presence so nearby and steady. She knows she won’t be able to sleep without his steady breaths and warmth beside her, knows that no one would watch over her and protect her like he does. No one would be able to make her half as happy as Raymond Reddington.

And she knows the happiness she finds with Red is sandwiched between the danger and the criminal world that she has found herself immersed in. But she doesn’t care anymore, because Liz had once always been for justice, for going about things the _right_ and lawful way. The Cabal had changed her. She wants revenge, for the pain and suffering they have caused Red, herself. She wants to avenge Ressler, a man that had been steadfast to being lawful and had paid the ultimate price because the Cabal had never played _fair_ , they never followed _rules_.

Liz feels as if China has been a tipping point for her. She knows that Ressler had gone onto foreign soil to retrieve them, thinking that they wouldn’t fight back. Red is too clever to ignite the fury of the Chinese, that they would have escaped without bloodshed or Ressler would have managed to apprehend them. The Cabal, however, had seen their presence in China as an _opportunity_. If civilians were injured, if an attack were to take place on foreign soil, their government would be furious with America. They saw the potential to ignite a Cold War against China, perhaps snaring Russia’s interest as well, and seized it, and by doing that they would tarnish Ressler’s name, blame him for running an unsanctioned operation on foreign soil. They would _lie_ about Ressler, a man that had forever been loyal to his country, and Liz would _never_ forgive or forget that.

Liz doesn’t care about her old life now; she had left that behind long ago. Now she is coming for them with a vengeance, a fury burning so heatedly in her core that she could easily bury a bullet between the Director’s eyes.

And Red would be by her side the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! We've only got two chapters left! So 23 should be up in a few days!


	23. Freedom Is A State Of Mind

He wakes slowly and then all at once, instantly missing the, now, usual heat of Lizzie draped over him. His eyes snap open as he reaches across the bed, only finding cold sheets. The room is still dark, dawn having not yet broken. Her silhouette cannot be seen in the darkness and Red can’t feel the presence of another.

Feeling unsettled, he glances around the room, his instincts honed to change. Lizzie is not here with him and she is not in the ensuite either. He aggressively shoves the blankets away and slips silently out of bed, grabbing the SIG he had hidden in his bedside drawer and pulling on some trousers.

She had been quiet after their discussion about the Cabal, only speaking when she was spoken to. Her eyes had that distant look about them, as if she was mulling over her thoughts with great concentration. He had let her be; knowing that she would need time to process the events of China, Ressler’s death and their next movements. She had gone to bed early, kissing Red on the cheek as she passed him.

The house is silent as he moves out to the living room, checking the kitchen. She is nowhere to be seen, but the front-door is wide open. Red feels panic claw its way up his throat as he steps outside.

It is pitch-black; the only light is the silver glow of the moon. The breeze is icy as it whispers over the exposed flesh of his torso, but the adrenaline that is roaring through his veins has burned any feeling or discomfort away. His eyes strain against the darkness, but eventually movement to his right grabs his attention.

She’s standing amongst the trees and from where he is standing, gun still drawn, on the top step of the house, he can see that she is staring at him. When she begins to walk towards him, she doesn’t look human. Her skin is painted silver, her movements are so fluid. As she advances he can see that she is softly smiling at him and when she finally reaches him she runs her hand down his forearm and takes his weapon.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice,” she says, humour in her voice, “I tried to slip out as quietly as possible.”

The anxiety that had coiled in his chest slowly ebbs away, unravels, as he looks at her. The copious scenarios that had roared in his mind screeching to a halt with the touch of her hand on his wrist.

“Why are you out here?” He asks, voice still edged with sleep. She smiles at him again, trails her fingers over his chest as she rolls the words around her tongue.

“I was thinking.”

“And that couldn’t be done in the bedroom?” is his sardonic reply, eyebrow raised. Despite his tone, his hands drift to her hips, tugs her closer.

“Pointlessly, as I see, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He laughs leaning in to kiss her before grasping her hand and pulling her back inside. She follows without protest, nudging the door closed with her foot as she passes it. He leads her to the kitchen, dropping her hand as he begins to make them both a coffee.

Lizzie sits on the stool by the kitchen bench and watches him, laughing softly as Dembe snores loudly from his own room. Red rolls his eyes in reply, having become accustomed to the lion he kept as a bodyguard.

As the coffee brews they sit in silence, Lizzie absently picking at the lint on Red’s trousers. He watches her steady concentration, knowing that she is mulling over the questions that he is most likely going to ask.

Red moves away, grabbing two mugs and pouring them their drinks before wandering back to the bedroom. He sits down on top of the covers, still partially dressed. Lizzie lays beside him, propped up on her pillows with her coffee in hand, her robe gaping open.

“What are you thinking about?” questions Red, reaching over and resting his hand on her upper thigh, briefly giving her leg a squeeze. She takes a sip of her coffee, shifting so she is closer to him, before leaning over and placing her coffee on the bedside table.

When she looks back at him her eyes are grave; steel and determination burn in their blue depths. Her hand drifts up to his face, her thumb runs along his bottom lip.

“You said, yesterday, that the process of my exoneration was slowing down the dismantlement of the Cabal,” she says and when he goes to protest she presses her thumb against his lips. It effectively silences him.

“Well, I’ve been thinking, Red... that... why should we bother?”

He knows that he is frowning at her, that he possibly looks disappointed. All he has _ever_ wanted for her is a normal life, where she could settle down and have a family. This dream for her was impossible if she was not exonerated.

“So that you can return to DC, return to your life. So that you can be happy, Lizzie,” he replies, sighing deeply when she begins to shake her head.

“When we were in Bali, you said that you would never leave me, is that still true?”

He simply looks at her, she already knows the answer to that, he can tell by the way she is smiling at him. They both look to the door as they hear the shower start from the bathroom further into the house. Dembe has risen for the day.

“I’m _never_ going to leave you, Red,” she whispers, “I’m not free, unless I’m with _you_. So let’s forget about absolving my crimes and focus on taking the Cabal down. We can do that together, Red, and then we can just disappear. I know you can make that happen.”

_I offer that particular package to clients_.

“Are you sure that this is what you want, sweetheart?” Red asks and his voice is hoarse, serious, “Are you willing to leave everything behind?”

Her answering smile is all the confirmation Red needs; so bright and trusting. It aches to look at her, so he bundles her into his arms, pressing kisses to her soft hair. His chest is rumbling with quiet laughter.

“Come then,” he whispers, tugging her up from the bed and onto her feet, “shall we get started?”

When they wander out of their bedroom after getting fully dressed Dembe is puttering around the kitchen, making more coffee and breakfast. He looks up at them and smiles at Lizzie before meeting Raymond’s eyes. His expression drops to something more serious and his voice is grave when he speaks.

“I take it the plan has changed?”

Red grins back at him and Lizzie swivels on her heels to meet his gaze. Her brows are furrowed as he starts to laugh again.

“In the wise words of Gandalf the Grey,” Red begins, “It’s time _to cut the head of the snake_. Call in all known associates and contacts, Dembe. We assault the Cabal in a week.”

The next few hours are a blur of phone calls and coffee and watching Lizzie doze on the sofa. He has put _The Hobbit_ on, knowing she has a fondness for fantasy. Dembe sits by him, laptop on the table and fingers tapping away furiously, sending emails to those they were not able to contact by phone.

Red made contact with Leonard Caul and had him track down and pin the Director’s current movements. He mostly resides in his home, a towering and elaborate mansion on the outskirts of DC. Dembe gave the address of the house to Samar Navabi, so she was able to scope out the security details in place; as expected, the house is impenetrable.  
She says that the concrete walls were impossible to scale, electrified at the top. The iron-gate was guarded by no less than four armed men at all times, others patrolled the tops of the walls. _Copious_ amounts of cameras were scattered throughout the property, all exits and entries accounted for.

“You’ll have a hard time getting in, Reddington,” she says, her voice having a static quality over the phone. He merely hangs up the phone and makes a call to Aram.

Lizzie strides over to him, a bowl of pasta in her hands. He looks up at her, smiling as the phone buzzes in his ear. She plonks the bowl before him, grabbing his hand and wrapping it around the fork and then pointedly looking at the meal. He nods his head, shovelling the fettuccine into his mouth as Aram picks up on the other end.

“Agent Mojatabai, I have a job for you,” Red proclaims loudly, nodding his head in approval at Lizzie’s inquisitive gaze. Dembe has been teaching her how to cook. She bounces back into the kitchen, speaking excitedly to the bodyguard.

“Mr Reddington? Yes, what is it? Samar just arrived home, told me about the fortifications.”

Red feels a fondness for the normally babbling and nervous agent. He had called the day they had arrived in England, distraught over Ressler’s death. Red had told him, and Samar, to flee the Post Office, go into hiding. The Cabal would immediately move to take over the Task Force; their lives would be in danger.

And so Aram now contacts him from one of Red’s safe houses, set up with all the equipment he desires. He is vengeful, determined in taking down the Cabal; it is not only his loyalty to Lizzie that now drives him.

“Aram, I need you to cause a distraction. I need you to hack into the Director’s security. I don’t care what you do, set off the fire alarm, anything that will draw his men away from the walls. My team will handle it from there.”

The line falls dead and Red focuses his attention back to his meal, taking a moment to settle his thoughts. He hears Lizzie still talking with Dembe, can smell what he assumes will be a delicious dessert. Red sighs deeply, tilts his head back to the ceiling and smiles.

It will all be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! I know the previous two have been a bit short, but they have been necessary to set up for the finale. I hope you enjoy this new installment either way! The final chapter is underway and should be an absolute ripper! Thank you so much for your continued support, it honestly means the world!


	24. With The Hounds Of Hell Coming After You

It is cold, the wind biting as it rushes through her thick jacket and gloves. The snow melts over her boots, in her hair as it tumbles from the grey clouds above. It coats the black marble of the tombstone in white, the gold lettering even starker in the dim light.

Liz traces her fingers reverently over his name, so cold and impersonal.

_Donald Ressler_.

Flowers, most vibrant and fresh, are laid by the stone, bright amongst the untouched white. She lays a bunch of red Snapdragons amongst them, feeling hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Red’s hand is a comforting warmth at the small of her back. She turns to him.

He’s chewing on his lip, face grave and eyes remorseful as he stares at the stone. He slides his hand from her back to fit into her palm, giving her a squeeze before turning and leading her back to the sedan, rumbling in the snow.

Dembe says nothing as they slip into the car and Liz breathes deeply, her sigh shaky and her chest aching. Red sits silently behind her, leaning forward and gripping Dembe’s shoulder as they pull away from the cemetery.

They had not even been in Washington for five hours, knowing that speed and stealth were paramount to their assault on the Director. Red had at first, back in England, flat out refused to allow Liz to go with them, to take part in the attack. Surprisingly, before Liz had the chance to start an argument, Dembe had stepped in, taking Red by the shoulder and leaning in to whisper something in his friend’s ear. Red’s face was stony, lips in a thin line, but he jerkily nodded his head before disappearing into the house. He was quiet for the rest of the evening.

Liz still does not know what Dembe had said to him.

As soon as they stepped off the jet and slid into the idling car waiting for them they had headed to the cemetery, Red having promised Liz that they would do so. She needed to pay her respects, but even more so she needed to swear to Ressler that she would do all it took to avenge him. Her heart still sits heavy in her chest, anxiety thrumming through her being.

She grits her teeth as Red’s phone buzzes; last minute preparations and checks taking place. His voice is a low rumble, serious and deep. He still grips her hand and Liz thinks she can feel a slight tremble in his fingers. He is nervous, twenty years of preparation leading up to this point. She knows that sleep has evaded him in the previous nights, having woken up to find him staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns over her bare skin, lost in thought.

It is Aram on the other end of the line, confirming that he is able to hack into the security cameras and disable them when Red’s team is ready to assault the building, and possibly open the gate as well. As suggested, the fire alarm will be triggered to cause confusion and to draw the guards away from their posts. If all goes well the assault team should be able to stroll through the Director’s front yard undetected.

The call ends and Red breathes deeply, turning to face her as Dembe turns on to the highway; they’re only a few miles from the Director’s house, the cover of night falling, painting the sky an inky black. His green eyes glitter as he stares at her.

“I love you,” he croaks, bringing her hand up to press a kiss to her palm. It’s shaky and she knows that there are tears in her eyes, but she smiles back at him.  
“We’re going to be fine, Red,” she whispers and when he doesn’t respond she leans forwards and kisses him, “and I love you too.”

He then grabs the duffel bag by his feet, unzips it and begins to pull out their clothing; black jumpers and pants, boots and guns. They dress efficiently as Dembe pulls off the highway, but the fear within Liz is rising, the angst she feels is almost choking. Red’s face slides into an indifferent mask; his eyes cold and calculating as he scans the scenery outside. He looks terrifying.

The road the Director’s house resides on is empty; the only company are the towering oak trees that line the sidewalks and the stray cats that dart through the shadows. Liz knows that amongst the murky darkness a group of armed and dangerous men wait for them, hidden in the shrubs and trees.

Dembe flicks off the lights of the car and practically rolls down the road, almost silent. They pull up along the curb and Red turns to her once more, but his expression is hidden by the darkness. The rawness of his voice is not; he doesn’t want her here, he is terrified.

“Be careful.”

_Be safe_.

And then he opens the door and steps out onto the sidewalk, swinging his shotgun over his shoulder and holstering his Colt 45. His men emerge from the night, the soft tread of their boots and the rustle of their clothes, the only sound. Their eyes, glittering and bright with adrenaline, are locked on to their commander; their attention absolute.

Reddington radiates power; command in the deep timbre of his voice, strength in the confidence of his posture and the promise of death and revenge burning in his eyes. The men circle around him, awaiting his signal. Dembe comes and stands next to Liz, places a steady hand on her shoulder before leaning down to whisper in her ear,

“Raymond wishes for me to stay with you.”

Liz smiles up at him, briefly squeezing his hand before returning her attention to Red. He is splitting the group. One half, specialised snipers, are sent off to take down the guards that patrol the walls. The other half stick with Red, preparing to infiltrate the building.

The tell-tale wail of a fire-alarm splits the silence. The night seems to come alive as shouts can be heard from within the towering walls. Red’s men jog forwards slowly, waiting for the guards to retreat further into the property. With Aram being able to monitor security cameras, he will be able to see when it is safe to open the gate.

Liz breathes deeply.

_Now it begins_.

The great gate shudders and creaks as it slides along its hinges. Liz moves with the rest of the group, Dembe’s looming presence a comfort behind her. Her weapon is slick in her hands, but her grip is tight and certain.

She can’t look away from Red, can’t help but notice that he hasn’t looked for her _once_. His shoulders are rounded and his steps sure as they creep up the driveway. He is focussed, intent. His fingers have stopped trembling and Liz feels as if he is in his domain, his _element_. She, on the other hand, can’t stop the shakiness of her breaths or ease the tension in her shoulders.

Over the harsh breathing of her comrades, Liz thinks she can hear the muted sounds of gunfire, hopefully their snipers. A figure, a few strides ahead of them, tumbles from the walls, falling to the ground, already dead, confirming her suspicions. The group does not hesitate, the front door and living room windows coming into sight.

The mansion is beautiful; the gardens leading to the oak double-doors are flawless. Ivy treks up the pale stone, the lights from within illuminating the green of their leaves. Figures can be seen hurrying past the windows, the occasional glint of steel alerting the assault team that those inside were armed.

They split once more, moving to position themselves either side of the bay windows that look into the living room. Red gives the signal and two of the men smash the windows with the butts of their guns, followed by throwing stunning grenades inside. Startled shouts can be heard and Liz’s tightens her grip on her gun.

She watches in awe as Red launches himself into the room, fluent and without effort, as if he hadn’t been shot in the chest only a few months ago. The other men follow suit. The flash and scream of gunfire can be seen and heard and Liz is frozen; she can’t _move_. Dembe pushes her forward, not willing to let Raymond out of his sight, but not willing to leave her behind.

And then she can hear him shouting, above all else she can hear his deep voice, laden with authority, shouting orders at his men as they rush through the house. Liz hauls herself through the window, her clothes catching on the broken glass as Dembe follows her.

Bodies litter the floor, pools of red seeping around them. Liz steps over them, ignoring everything but the pounding of blood in her limbs, that rich voice disappearing further into the house. He has left a trail of bodies in his wake, obvious by his trademark shots; one to the head, one to the heart. She follows after him, grim determination saturating her bloodstream.

They round a corner, dart up a stair case, rush down a corridor. Liz’s breaths are torn from her chest and she can hear Dembe breathing heavily behind her. She turns back to him, offering him a smile, which he feebly returns.

Liz is wrenched off her feet, the black-clad arm like iron around her throat. She struggles against her attacker, wondering how the team could have missed him. Dembe has his weapon aimed, but he doesn’t have a clear shot. Liz can smell the man’s sour breath as he presses closer behind her.

“Drop the weapon!” He shouts, almost hysterical as he jams the muzzle of his own gun to her temple, making Liz wince. She hears her SIG thud on the floor as it falls from her hand, watches as Dembe slowly lays his gun on the ground, raising his hands above his head as instructed.

The man moves the gun away from Liz’s temple, indicating where he wants Dembe to stand. She takes the mere second she has been given to throw back her head, smashing into the assailant’s with a sickening crunch, before swinging her leg back and savagely kicking at the man’s knee.

He howls in pain, staggering away. Liz rushes forward, lunging for her gun, knowing that he would regain his composure, that he still carried a weapon. She can hear his heavy footsteps as he rights himself, hears the click of a gun. She spins around, her blonde hair fanning out around her.

Two shots ring out.

One to the head and one to the heart.

The assailant slumps to the floor, rivulets of blood running down his front, eyes already dim. She can see Red’s silhouette at the end of the corridor, still aiming his gun, eyes blazing. He takes a step towards her as Dembe rushes over, pulls her to her feet.

“I had that covered,” she says breathlessly as he finally reaches her. He brushes her hair back from her face, shaking his head. Dembe has moved away to grab her gun before placing it in her palm, expression solemn once more.

“Come on,” Red says, turning and leading them down the corridor. The rest of the team are not in sight, but Liz can hear gunfire from deeper within the house. She doesn’t look at her attacker as she passes his body.

“Where’s the Director?”

“Locked in his bedroom,” is Red’s curt reply as they move through the house, going up another set of stairs and stepping over fallen men, Red’s and the Director’s alike. Liz looks behind to see that she is leaving crimson footprints in her wake.

When they come to a closed door, what Liz assumes is the bedroom, Red seems to falter. He turns to look at her, tilting his head. She takes a step closer to him, frowning. He looks _insecure_.

“What’s wrong?”

He briefly opens his mouth, works his jaw as if he can’t force the words out, before simply shaking his head and pushing the door open.

The Director sits on his bed, posture straight and aiming for something like decorum, as they stride into the room. His grey hair is dishevelled, blood leaks from a cut on his forehead and he is dressed in only his pyjamas. His eyes are cold and small, different without being magnified by his glasses.

He looks to Liz as she enters the room, a small smile flitting across his face. She notices the way Red seems to tense, only minutely, but it is still visible. She meets the Director’s gaze, tilting her head to look at him.

“Blonde suits you,” he drones, eyes darting to Red, “you look just like your mother.”

Liz says nothing so he turns his attentions to Reddington, a look of amusement crossing his features.

“Very impressive, Mr. Reddington,” he begins and Liz can see that Red is smiling back at him, but his eyes are burning, furious. “But I can’t help but wonder, what is the plan now? Killing me, what will that achieve?”

Red scoffs, shifting his weight as he levels his gun between the Director’s eyes. The air is electric around them, thick with suspense and tension. Liz is dimly aware of Dembe closing the door before coming to stand beside her.

“You’re arrogant, Peter” Red states, his voice so jovial, “You’ve held secrets from your friends, secrets that are paramount for the functioning of the Cabal. Don’t try to _bluff_ your way out of this. Together with your death and the investigations of the journalists I set on your path, your Clandestine Government will be in shambles in a manner of _weeks_.”

Liz watches as the Director’s face morphs from fury to grim acceptance. He nods his head, looking away from them both and out the window.

“There was a time that I wouldn’t have settled until I killed every single one of the Cabal’s members,” Red states, voice almost bored as he cocks his gun, “Suppose I’ll just have to settle for you.”

The blast of the gun causes Liz to flinch, but she does not look away as the Director sinks to the floor, lifeless. A sigh gusts out of her at the sight; there was no turning back now. She looks up at Reddington, his face is blank but his eyes roam over her with concern.

She wouldn’t turn back now, even if she had the choice.

“We need to go,” Red says and his voice is gruff as he grabs her hand and leads her out of the bedroom and out of the house. Eventually out of the country.

With Dembe they rush out to the car, already the wail of sirens could be heard in the distance. The roar of the engine is all Liz can hear for a moment as they tear off into the darkness, tyres squealing on the asphalt.

Dembe drives them, extremely quickly and dangerously, to an abandoned airstrip. They leave the car, Red having organised for someone to torch it, and ascend the stairs to the jet waiting for them. Liz’s heart is still thrumming in her chest as the plane bumps along the runway and takes off into the sky.

Red has made himself a drink and now sits with her tucked into her side. They have changed; Liz into some comfortable clothes, jeans and a jumper, and Red, predictably, into a suit. She snuggles deeper into his embrace and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“So, how long is it until we land?” Liz asks, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she looks at him. His expression is so soft, so adoring as he looks at her. She is pleased to see that there is no trace of regret or remorse over his features.

“That depends, Lizzie,” he whispers, capturing her lips with his, “on where you would like to go?”

Liz smirks at him, her fingers skimming up his front to begin untying the knot of his tie. She shifts so that she is straddling him, throwing a cautious glance to the cockpit where the pilot and Dembe are. Red presses a kiss to her collarbone, pulling her attention back to him.

“Well,” she says breathlessly, “I suppose that right now, the only place I want to be is right here.”

Red’s hands begin to wander beneath the hem of her jumper, his fingertips dancing over her bare skin. He is smirking at her, pressing soft kisses just below her jaw.

“It’s a good thing we have plenty of fuel,” he breathes against her skin, a wicked grin transforming his face as he glances up at her, “this may take a while.”

She laughs as he tilts her so that she is lying on her back and he holds his weight above her, resting on his forearms. She smiles up at him and he smiles back. Liz never believed she could be this happy, especially as a wanted criminal or _with_ a wanted criminal.

_God_ , she loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! All done! I hope you enjoyed the final installment! Thank you so much for all your support! I have a new piece of work underway, which I am unbelievably excited about so stay tuned for more! Thank you again!
> 
> Below I have listed the songs that greatly inspired this piece of work;  
> Ragged Mile – The John Butler Trio  
> You – Keaton Heason  
> Back Down the Black – Boy & Bear  
> Bloodsport – Raleigh Ritchie  
> Tomorrow – Daughter  
> Fire Stone – Kygo  
> One Way Or Another – Until the Ribbon Breaks  
> Trouble – TV on the Radio  
> Bullet Girl – John Butler Trio  
> Little Lion Man – Mumford & Sons  
> Trouble (Robots Don’t Sleep) – Robot Koch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer;  
> I do not own the Blacklist or any of its characters.


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